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deathpixie12/9/2002 - 18/9/2002.
Calgary to Jasper.
The Rockies. What an understatement. From the bare bones of mountains exposed by wind and rain and ice, to the piles of rubble left by passing glaciers, to the fragments of shale and gravel you scramble up to a peak or sweep away from your tent-site, this place has solid, stony roots.
Iím here in the Whistle Stop pub in Jasper, with Gerg sitting opposite me on this small round table and our computers plugged into a convenient socket in the window ledge. Thereís a pint of Grasshopper beer by my elbow, and a bowl of soup on its way. Outside itís cold and grey and misty, and it snowed at the hostel this morning, and you know what? Itís bloody fantastic. It’s one of those perfect moments, y’know?
(Side note: French onion soup in Canada comes with melted cheese on top, balanced on a slice of brown bread. And lots of onions and pepper. It’s good.)
But enough waxing lyrical – I have a couple of hours to sum up the last almost-week, before we head over to the Net place that has a network connection and will let me plug this into it. And I need to get most done before the beer kicks in – all this healthy living has made me a very cheap drunk again. Gerg’s ahead of me this time – he has almost all of it already done, including pictures. So head on over to the site for a gander.
So, the morning of the 12th, we left Calgary via the Mountain Equipment Co-Op, and a pair of rather nice hiking pants (on special) for me, and a bunch of stuff that’s come in very handy for Gerg. We also had an excellent breakfast at a place recommended by the Guide, with wonderful home-made jams. Then we hit the road, successfully escaping Calgary’s bizarre street lack-of-plan and driving with the mountains luring us onward and upward. It was perhaps lunchtime by the time we reached Banff – not really that far from Calgary – and were immediately bewildered by the sheer mass of people. And that’s during the off-season; apparently the place more than quadruples in population during summer. Banff is basically the small mountain town that was eaten by tourists. Every second building is a hotel or restaurant or gift shop, and it’s hard to imagine anyone actually living there. But despite it all, it retains a certain charm, perhaps because of the number of backpackers and other free spirits living there, or because of the setting – you’re surrounded on all sides by mountains, and the Bow River, which runs through town, is the distinctive blue-green of the glacier-fed waterways of this area. Something to do with the silt carried by the melt water.
We made our battle plans in the park by the river, and having decided where we’d stay and what we needed to do immediately, we headed off to lunch at a great little vegetarian restaurant not far from the Net cafÈ I’ve already posted my “I’m alive” post from. We then wandered out to our camp ground – Two Jack Lakes – which is a ‘bare’ campsite. Basically, you leave nothing out that could become a food source or attract bears. My first awakening to the fact we were in bear country now. Bears (and other large dangerous animals) are not normally a factor in Australian bushwalking, so it was a little disconcerting. We set up the tent (I’d purchased earplugs in Calgary when we’d restocked our supplies, so no worries there) and then headed back to town for our first hike, Tunnel Mountain.
Tunnel Mountain was so named because when they were laying the railroad across the country, someone thought blasting a tunnel through a hill was a good idea. Fortunately, saner heads prevailed, and the train went around the hill, leaving only the potentiality of the name. Compared to its surroundings, it is but a lump, but we gained 200 metres over the 2km we walked, so it was a good stiff uphill. The view was more than worth it – the Vermillion Lakes and Mount Rundle, which has edges like a razor blade, and the town itself, looking far more quiet than it actually is.
Having exerted ourselves, we then headed to the Sulfur Mountain Spa, one of a few in the Rockies. Lots of lovely hot water, and conversations with fellow travellers, before heading back into town and sorting out stuff at the Net cafÈ and having a dinner of granola bars and apples (we’d had a big late lunch).
13/9/2002.
Next morning dawned bright and early, and I crawled out of the tent first for the first time so far – insomniacs always make you feel lazy, being up and about ages before you by virtue of having only slept a few hours, feh. Gerg woke up during my unsuccessful attempts to burgle him of his car keys – I needed to get breakfast out of the back, and having had breakfast and communed with the squirrels, we headed up the road for a walk called the Plain of Six Glaciers, near Lake Louise.
Let me digress here for a moment for a brief discussion of the two types of tourists you will see anywhere, but especially here. The first type are the backpackers, the hikers, and other outdoorsy types who stay in hostels or camp out and are generally easy-going and not that obvious around places. The other, and by the far more common, is the Tourist, who travel in bus groups or campervans or shiny hardly-used four wheel drives and congregate in gaggles talking at the top of their voices and dropping cigarette butts and rubbish and complaining about how things aren’t like they are at home. They also take photos of everything that moves, and disregard the numerous warnings posted by park rangers about getting too close to the wildlife or walking on glaciers or other things which endanger their health and that of other people and the animals of the park. They stay in the luxury hotels (which are generally a blight on the landscape), shop in the tacky tourist stores and fly through the scenery like they’re on a strict timetable.
The reason why I mention the Tourist tourist is because Lake Louise is a shrine to such a creature. Imagine, if you will, or perhaps check out Gerg’s site for pictures, if there is one, a lake, pure aquamarine in colour, reflecting the steep snow-tipped mountains on all sides, couched in the velvet dark-green of the pine forests. Then plunk a multi-storied European-style chalet right on the shores of the lake, the white walls contrasting with everything around it, and then fill the car parks and surrounding lake-side paths with moronic tourists. There you have Lake Louise. Needless to say, we quickly by-passed the more populated area for the first stage of our walk, the path up to Lake Agnes and the tea room.
It was a bit like the United Nations up there, accents from every nation. It’s good hiker etiquette to say hello to those you pass, and on that first stage, there were many ‘hellos’ to be said. Then we took the diversion at Mirror Lake, and continued through the forest on a small dirt path. The guidebooks pooh-pooh the forest sections, but to an Aussie, a North American conifer forest is a whole new experience. There are plants only seen in people’s gardens – I saw maidenhair ferns growing wild, Mum – and lots of new smells and rustlings and the LFDs.
A LFD is, for those wondering, a Little Furry (or Fuzzy) Dude. Basically anything small, and furry, and cute; squirrels, chipmunks, and pikas, which are little grey blurs that live in the rocks. The sight of any of these will make me coo and squeal and generally turn into goo. What can I say, I’m a sucker for things that look like mobile stuffed toys.
The walk continued, up and down and across ridges and rocks and through what Gerg called “Bear Alley” – bushes head height on both sides as we walked through an alpine meadow, until we reached the second tea house and the sign proclaiming the Plain of Six Glaciers was only 1.6km along another track. That might have been the case, but it was a hard 1.6km – lots of rock and uphill, cumulating in a ridge walk along a pile of glacial debris to a point at the foot of the glaciers. We were stuffed by the time we made it, but oh, what a sight. Towering mountains, sheathed in ice and snow, waterfalls plummeting down the sheer rock faces, the rumble of avalanches (we saw one, snow and ice tumbling down the mountain), and the biting cold wind across your face. Incredible.
The return loop was quicker (fuelled by hot chocolate at the tea room and a down hill). We spotted a mountain goat and her kid along the way, up a rock wall I’d only tackle with a safety rope, and eventually hit the lakeshore and a wide, flat waling path. We also passed the rock climbing part called “Back of the Lake”, although the climbers were packing up for the evening. Most of the crowds had gone, so we could enjoy the lake in peace, and then piled into the car to head for the Lake Louise township and the hostel.
Alas and alack! For we did not book, and there was no room at the inn for two extremely weary travellers. We were directed to Mosquito Creek Hostel, another half-hour down the road. As it turned out, they did us a favour, because the hostel, while being rustic – no showers, basic dorm, propane instead of electricity – was far more friendlier and more homely than any of the other places we’ve stayed at so far. There was a sauna, which we meant to use but ended up too tired to bother with – and a group of fellow-travellers who gave us a warm welcome. A French couple, an Irish girl and a Scottish girl travelling together, and then Mike the American, a late arrival. We sat in the common room eating popcorn from the communal food shelf and talking for half the night, before warmth and tiredness set in and we stumbled off to bed.
16/9/2002.
Joints were moving less well come the morning, and aching muscles made themselves felt. We made a very slow start to the day, not actually leaving until midday, when we went up to Lake Morraine, next to Lake Louise. Again, it was crowded with Tourists, so we stayed only long enough to go ooh and ah at the pretty colours, and to climb the big rock pile left behind by the glacier, and then continued up the Icefields Parkway, justifiably named the most scenic road in Canada. We stopped at an anonymous rest stop for lunch, tucked away in the trees, and then hit the Rampart Creek hostel late afternoon. Again, another rustic hostel, with two small dorms and a kitchen-common room and a sauna. This time use was made, with me, Gerg, two Americans and a rather cute Irishman called Michael piled into a small steamy cabin. It was the best way to warm up and leech the sore from my legs, although I wasn’t brave/silly enough to plunge into the creek next door (all the waterways here are ice cold on account of the glacial melt) as the boys were. But I did feel the cleanest I had in ages, and left Gerg to make dinner and chatted with Michael and the hostel manager Deb at the campfire outside.
(Sidenote: Gerg and I have come to an understanding – he does most of the food and in return I wash the dreaded Dishes. Except those nights when I actually get the itch to cook and offer to do both in return for driving/cups of tea/chocolate/shoulder rubs. It’s a system that works.)
14/9/2002.
The usual jokes about bears were made in reference to Gerg’s snoring by the Americans the next morning, and we made the discovery the Japanese tour group using the other cabin had used all the tank water and the manager was nowhere to be seen. We made do with boiling creek water (have to, to avoid ‘beaver fever’ caused by a bacteria in the water) and the bottle of water we keep in the car. Michael was wanting a ride up the road to Beauty Hostel, so we made space and packed him in. It was nice, having another viewpoint to conversation, and we stopped at the Columbia Icefields Centre on the way, because none of us had seen it. The Centre itself was to be avoided, being full of Tourists of the worst sort (I’m such a snob, aren’t I?) and we took the short hike to the toe of the glacier, much amused by the various warning signs every five feet. There was a section of the glacier marked off for walking on, and that we did. Well, Michael and I did – Gerg had his sandals on, on account of blisters from the 18km Six Glaciers hike, and stayed on the lower level – so now I can say I’ve walked on a real live glacier. Although the New Zealand ones are much better, according to the highly-travelled Irishman.
Not much further up the road we lost our hitchhiker, and continued up to Jasper, stopping here and there for photo opportunities. There was one thing and one thing only in mind when we hit town – Laundry. Things were at that scary no underwear stage, and so we scoped out town and found us a laundromat, showers and a pub, in reverse order. Jasper’s a nice little town, Banff without the mayhem, although it has its share of Tourist traps. The Whistle Stop pub catered to beer and slightly-unhealthy food cravings, and then we took care of the cleanliness side of things, bumping into Mike the American (from Mosquito Creek) for the second time that day. He was heading out to Maligne Creek Hostel (pronounced Ma-Leen, according to the Guide) while we decided to give Mt Edith Cavell a try. We called the hostel before commencing Laundry and were told there was plenty of space, so we didn’t hurry. Perhaps a mistake, as that self-same Japanese tour group we’d encountered at Rampart Creek had checked in and taken over half the beds. Again, no room at the inn, however, we’d driven quite a way up the side of a mountain in the dark to get there and so were not really interested in returning to Jasper (also full) and diverting to Malinge Creek. Kat, the manager, taking pity on us, offered us mattresses on the floor at half price, so after inspecting the situation, we decided to take her up on the offer. I bagged the spot near the stove, while Gerg went in between two sets of bunks.
15/9/2002.
A rough night. The place was full and therefore pretty noisy, with several snorers entering the International Snore-Off, and someone mistaking me in the middle of the night for a rather thick floor mat. Fortunately for me, the person who stepped on my chest in the middle of the night was a small Japanese person, and no damage was done. As soon as that group left, we secured proper beds for that evening, and then hatched plans over breakfast. By this time I was seriously craving some private time – I’d realised I hadn’t been alone for two months, by this stage, and was getting cranky – so I decided on a solo hike up the Cavell Meadows and Gerg was going to potter around and do his own thing. After some food shopping in Jasper and some lunch.
The Cavell Meadows walk starts in the car park of the Angel Glacier, 2km up the road from the hostel. A nice warm-up, if you ignore the cars, as I did. From the car park, I joined the paved Glacier walk, and then diverted up into the small wooded hill nearby. Again, it was mostly uphill, but I had been itching for something harder to work out the kinks and alone I could go my own pace and not worry about slowing anyone down or making them feel they were slowing me down. The weather was cool and cloudy, but I’d packed my waterproofs, being a well-trained little hiker, and had plenty of water and munchies should I need them. I passed a crew of volunteers and Park staff maintaining the paths, and reached the first lookout in about an hour. The American couple I met there were amazed I was not only going to extend the walk, but go up higher.
The second section was much harder, being rockier and steeper. I got a great photo of another hiking group outlined against the sky on the top of the ridge that was my final goal – we nodded and exchanged gasped “Hi’s” as we passed each other. The final stint, only two hundred metres at the most, was the worst. All loose shale fragments, slipping out from under my feet, a very steep grade, and an ice-cold wind whistling straight down into my face. It had started to rain, so I’d put on the coat, which turned out to be a good idea. The view from the top was spectacular – talk about being on top of the world. I decided to make a little inukshuk, the pile of stones that say “I was here”, essentially, while catching my breath – the altitude was making it hard to recover, as well as incipient unfitness – and as I was crouched over my little pile of rocks, the weather did what mountain weather is famous for – it changed.
Snow. Cold, wet, sleety snow, straight into my face as I turned around. It came over in all of a minute, and I realised I was going to have to get moving again if I didn’t want to get too cold; the thing about my size is that I don’t deal with cold well, I get hypothermic in a hurry. So down I went, much faster than I’d ascended, almost skiing in some patches down the shale. I reached the forest again and the snow became light rain, and I merrily continued on my way, feeling the warm glow of achievement. Or perhaps it was the endorphins. Either way, I felt good. I caught up to the other group I’d seen at the bottom – they were English, and were watching a marmoset family on the trail. These are fairly large critters, so don’t qualify as LFDs, but are rather appealing any way – grey, about the size and look of a beaver, without the flat tail. Once we were able to pass, I continued down the path with their fastest walkers, until reaching the small lake at the bottom of the glacier where I caught up to Gerg, who’d decided on a stroll. We hung around, taking photos and watching a completely mad Japanese couple climb directly beneath the glacier to the cliff face. Now, considering the lake had large chunks of ice in it from avalanches, and there were warning signs everywhere about avalanches and crevasses, it was an incredibly dumb thing to do.
After twenty minutes or so I had to go, as the wind off the glacier had gotten more icy and I was losing feeling in my hands and feet. No, the Aussie doesn’t do cold well. Gerg stayed to be a witness to the untimely end of the Japanese (they were well beyond reach of a yell by the time anyone noticed them climbing up), and I started back to the hostel. I caught up to my English group again – they had some very slow walkers – and as I was trudging down the road, they came past in the car and offered me a lift. Being freezing, I accepted, and we had a good little chat about mad Japanese Tourists before getting to the hostel. It’s one of the nicest things about the Rockies. Apart from the scenery, that is. People are so nice and friendly to each other. I would dream of hitching in Australia, or anywhere else, but here it’s a lot safer. Lots of family groups and such.
The line-up at the hostel had changed by the time I got back – another tour group, this time a mixed bunch including two Aussies and an English guy, as well as two other Aussies (Paddy and Bec) travelling on their own. I thawed out in the kitchen and chatted, scored some food on account of looking cold and hungry, and waited for Gerg to get back. It was a couple of hours later, raining and getting dark, and I was starting to wonder if I should get someone to drive me up to look for him, when he arrived dramatically at the door, soaked through and proclaiming he was a little chilly. Typical Canadian. *rolls eyes* The rest of the evening passed by chatting to the other residents and getting high on chocolate, another substance we’ve been abstaining from.
17/9/2002.
Mt Edith Cavell Hostel is a nifty place. So nifty, in fact, that we decided to spend another night. The plans of the day, again hatched over breakfast, were to do a nice short-ish walk by the name of the Valley of Five Lakes, and then go to the hot springs in Miette about an hour’s drive from Banff. The walk was very pleasant, in the intermittent sunshine, with the deciduous trees turning all shades of autumn and the lakes varying shades of aquamarine. The hostel was on the way back, so we stopped and had left-over chilli (made by Gerg, and very good stuff) for lunch and then headed for the springs and another long soak. Too long – I started getting that woozy feeling soaking in very hot water gives me. Just as well there were no phone calls from telemarketers. *grins*
On our clean and refreshed return, I kicked Gerg out of the kitchen (almost literally – he came back in poking around and I growled at him) and made stir fry and noodles for dinner. Apparently we sound like an old married couple, the way we bicker/banter, a source of amusement for Kat. Marcos, a Spanish guy staying at the hostel, returned with a dramatic story about severe kidney pain at four in the morning and a trip to Jasper Hospital and the joys of morphine. Seems like he might have a kidney stone. He decided to spend the next day close to home (ie, on the couch in the common room), in case the pain returned. We sat around and chatted again, this time with a couple from San Francisco (whose names neither of us got, gah!), and passed another pleasant evening. We even took the bear awareness quiz, which I half-passed. Oh, and we saw elk on the way home from the spa.
18/9/2002.
Today, in fact. Wow. Let’s see, apart from sitting here for the past three hours trying to write everything down, we went out to Malinge Lake for a short hike (only 5km) to Moose Lake (and I did see a moose, on the way back!) and then back into town. Another quiet day, taking care of errands and hiding from the cold. Because it is cold out there – we chased autumn up the mountains from Banff to Jasper. It’ll be interesting to see how things fare in British Columbia – our next destination. We’re heading north, as far as I know, and then down to Vancouver.
I have to say, I could easily spend all my time here in the Rockies. It’s a definite return voyage; I’d like to come back sometime and do as Michael the Irishman was doing, hitching his way from Jasper to Banff, staying at hostels when he was sociable, camping out when he was not, taking his time and carrying all he needed. But that’s another trip that shall be made another time. :)
Off now – Gerg’s staring at me, waiting for me to finish so we can go post all this. Love to all.
Calgary to Jasper.
The Rockies. What an understatement. From the bare bones of mountains exposed by wind and rain and ice, to the piles of rubble left by passing glaciers, to the fragments of shale and gravel you scramble up to a peak or sweep away from your tent-site, this place has solid, stony roots.
Iím here in the Whistle Stop pub in Jasper, with Gerg sitting opposite me on this small round table and our computers plugged into a convenient socket in the window ledge. Thereís a pint of Grasshopper beer by my elbow, and a bowl of soup on its way. Outside itís cold and grey and misty, and it snowed at the hostel this morning, and you know what? Itís bloody fantastic. It’s one of those perfect moments, y’know?
(Side note: French onion soup in Canada comes with melted cheese on top, balanced on a slice of brown bread. And lots of onions and pepper. It’s good.)
But enough waxing lyrical – I have a couple of hours to sum up the last almost-week, before we head over to the Net place that has a network connection and will let me plug this into it. And I need to get most done before the beer kicks in – all this healthy living has made me a very cheap drunk again. Gerg’s ahead of me this time – he has almost all of it already done, including pictures. So head on over to the site for a gander.
So, the morning of the 12th, we left Calgary via the Mountain Equipment Co-Op, and a pair of rather nice hiking pants (on special) for me, and a bunch of stuff that’s come in very handy for Gerg. We also had an excellent breakfast at a place recommended by the Guide, with wonderful home-made jams. Then we hit the road, successfully escaping Calgary’s bizarre street lack-of-plan and driving with the mountains luring us onward and upward. It was perhaps lunchtime by the time we reached Banff – not really that far from Calgary – and were immediately bewildered by the sheer mass of people. And that’s during the off-season; apparently the place more than quadruples in population during summer. Banff is basically the small mountain town that was eaten by tourists. Every second building is a hotel or restaurant or gift shop, and it’s hard to imagine anyone actually living there. But despite it all, it retains a certain charm, perhaps because of the number of backpackers and other free spirits living there, or because of the setting – you’re surrounded on all sides by mountains, and the Bow River, which runs through town, is the distinctive blue-green of the glacier-fed waterways of this area. Something to do with the silt carried by the melt water.
We made our battle plans in the park by the river, and having decided where we’d stay and what we needed to do immediately, we headed off to lunch at a great little vegetarian restaurant not far from the Net cafÈ I’ve already posted my “I’m alive” post from. We then wandered out to our camp ground – Two Jack Lakes – which is a ‘bare’ campsite. Basically, you leave nothing out that could become a food source or attract bears. My first awakening to the fact we were in bear country now. Bears (and other large dangerous animals) are not normally a factor in Australian bushwalking, so it was a little disconcerting. We set up the tent (I’d purchased earplugs in Calgary when we’d restocked our supplies, so no worries there) and then headed back to town for our first hike, Tunnel Mountain.
Tunnel Mountain was so named because when they were laying the railroad across the country, someone thought blasting a tunnel through a hill was a good idea. Fortunately, saner heads prevailed, and the train went around the hill, leaving only the potentiality of the name. Compared to its surroundings, it is but a lump, but we gained 200 metres over the 2km we walked, so it was a good stiff uphill. The view was more than worth it – the Vermillion Lakes and Mount Rundle, which has edges like a razor blade, and the town itself, looking far more quiet than it actually is.
Having exerted ourselves, we then headed to the Sulfur Mountain Spa, one of a few in the Rockies. Lots of lovely hot water, and conversations with fellow travellers, before heading back into town and sorting out stuff at the Net cafÈ and having a dinner of granola bars and apples (we’d had a big late lunch).
13/9/2002.
Next morning dawned bright and early, and I crawled out of the tent first for the first time so far – insomniacs always make you feel lazy, being up and about ages before you by virtue of having only slept a few hours, feh. Gerg woke up during my unsuccessful attempts to burgle him of his car keys – I needed to get breakfast out of the back, and having had breakfast and communed with the squirrels, we headed up the road for a walk called the Plain of Six Glaciers, near Lake Louise.
Let me digress here for a moment for a brief discussion of the two types of tourists you will see anywhere, but especially here. The first type are the backpackers, the hikers, and other outdoorsy types who stay in hostels or camp out and are generally easy-going and not that obvious around places. The other, and by the far more common, is the Tourist, who travel in bus groups or campervans or shiny hardly-used four wheel drives and congregate in gaggles talking at the top of their voices and dropping cigarette butts and rubbish and complaining about how things aren’t like they are at home. They also take photos of everything that moves, and disregard the numerous warnings posted by park rangers about getting too close to the wildlife or walking on glaciers or other things which endanger their health and that of other people and the animals of the park. They stay in the luxury hotels (which are generally a blight on the landscape), shop in the tacky tourist stores and fly through the scenery like they’re on a strict timetable.
The reason why I mention the Tourist tourist is because Lake Louise is a shrine to such a creature. Imagine, if you will, or perhaps check out Gerg’s site for pictures, if there is one, a lake, pure aquamarine in colour, reflecting the steep snow-tipped mountains on all sides, couched in the velvet dark-green of the pine forests. Then plunk a multi-storied European-style chalet right on the shores of the lake, the white walls contrasting with everything around it, and then fill the car parks and surrounding lake-side paths with moronic tourists. There you have Lake Louise. Needless to say, we quickly by-passed the more populated area for the first stage of our walk, the path up to Lake Agnes and the tea room.
It was a bit like the United Nations up there, accents from every nation. It’s good hiker etiquette to say hello to those you pass, and on that first stage, there were many ‘hellos’ to be said. Then we took the diversion at Mirror Lake, and continued through the forest on a small dirt path. The guidebooks pooh-pooh the forest sections, but to an Aussie, a North American conifer forest is a whole new experience. There are plants only seen in people’s gardens – I saw maidenhair ferns growing wild, Mum – and lots of new smells and rustlings and the LFDs.
A LFD is, for those wondering, a Little Furry (or Fuzzy) Dude. Basically anything small, and furry, and cute; squirrels, chipmunks, and pikas, which are little grey blurs that live in the rocks. The sight of any of these will make me coo and squeal and generally turn into goo. What can I say, I’m a sucker for things that look like mobile stuffed toys.
The walk continued, up and down and across ridges and rocks and through what Gerg called “Bear Alley” – bushes head height on both sides as we walked through an alpine meadow, until we reached the second tea house and the sign proclaiming the Plain of Six Glaciers was only 1.6km along another track. That might have been the case, but it was a hard 1.6km – lots of rock and uphill, cumulating in a ridge walk along a pile of glacial debris to a point at the foot of the glaciers. We were stuffed by the time we made it, but oh, what a sight. Towering mountains, sheathed in ice and snow, waterfalls plummeting down the sheer rock faces, the rumble of avalanches (we saw one, snow and ice tumbling down the mountain), and the biting cold wind across your face. Incredible.
The return loop was quicker (fuelled by hot chocolate at the tea room and a down hill). We spotted a mountain goat and her kid along the way, up a rock wall I’d only tackle with a safety rope, and eventually hit the lakeshore and a wide, flat waling path. We also passed the rock climbing part called “Back of the Lake”, although the climbers were packing up for the evening. Most of the crowds had gone, so we could enjoy the lake in peace, and then piled into the car to head for the Lake Louise township and the hostel.
Alas and alack! For we did not book, and there was no room at the inn for two extremely weary travellers. We were directed to Mosquito Creek Hostel, another half-hour down the road. As it turned out, they did us a favour, because the hostel, while being rustic – no showers, basic dorm, propane instead of electricity – was far more friendlier and more homely than any of the other places we’ve stayed at so far. There was a sauna, which we meant to use but ended up too tired to bother with – and a group of fellow-travellers who gave us a warm welcome. A French couple, an Irish girl and a Scottish girl travelling together, and then Mike the American, a late arrival. We sat in the common room eating popcorn from the communal food shelf and talking for half the night, before warmth and tiredness set in and we stumbled off to bed.
16/9/2002.
Joints were moving less well come the morning, and aching muscles made themselves felt. We made a very slow start to the day, not actually leaving until midday, when we went up to Lake Morraine, next to Lake Louise. Again, it was crowded with Tourists, so we stayed only long enough to go ooh and ah at the pretty colours, and to climb the big rock pile left behind by the glacier, and then continued up the Icefields Parkway, justifiably named the most scenic road in Canada. We stopped at an anonymous rest stop for lunch, tucked away in the trees, and then hit the Rampart Creek hostel late afternoon. Again, another rustic hostel, with two small dorms and a kitchen-common room and a sauna. This time use was made, with me, Gerg, two Americans and a rather cute Irishman called Michael piled into a small steamy cabin. It was the best way to warm up and leech the sore from my legs, although I wasn’t brave/silly enough to plunge into the creek next door (all the waterways here are ice cold on account of the glacial melt) as the boys were. But I did feel the cleanest I had in ages, and left Gerg to make dinner and chatted with Michael and the hostel manager Deb at the campfire outside.
(Sidenote: Gerg and I have come to an understanding – he does most of the food and in return I wash the dreaded Dishes. Except those nights when I actually get the itch to cook and offer to do both in return for driving/cups of tea/chocolate/shoulder rubs. It’s a system that works.)
14/9/2002.
The usual jokes about bears were made in reference to Gerg’s snoring by the Americans the next morning, and we made the discovery the Japanese tour group using the other cabin had used all the tank water and the manager was nowhere to be seen. We made do with boiling creek water (have to, to avoid ‘beaver fever’ caused by a bacteria in the water) and the bottle of water we keep in the car. Michael was wanting a ride up the road to Beauty Hostel, so we made space and packed him in. It was nice, having another viewpoint to conversation, and we stopped at the Columbia Icefields Centre on the way, because none of us had seen it. The Centre itself was to be avoided, being full of Tourists of the worst sort (I’m such a snob, aren’t I?) and we took the short hike to the toe of the glacier, much amused by the various warning signs every five feet. There was a section of the glacier marked off for walking on, and that we did. Well, Michael and I did – Gerg had his sandals on, on account of blisters from the 18km Six Glaciers hike, and stayed on the lower level – so now I can say I’ve walked on a real live glacier. Although the New Zealand ones are much better, according to the highly-travelled Irishman.
Not much further up the road we lost our hitchhiker, and continued up to Jasper, stopping here and there for photo opportunities. There was one thing and one thing only in mind when we hit town – Laundry. Things were at that scary no underwear stage, and so we scoped out town and found us a laundromat, showers and a pub, in reverse order. Jasper’s a nice little town, Banff without the mayhem, although it has its share of Tourist traps. The Whistle Stop pub catered to beer and slightly-unhealthy food cravings, and then we took care of the cleanliness side of things, bumping into Mike the American (from Mosquito Creek) for the second time that day. He was heading out to Maligne Creek Hostel (pronounced Ma-Leen, according to the Guide) while we decided to give Mt Edith Cavell a try. We called the hostel before commencing Laundry and were told there was plenty of space, so we didn’t hurry. Perhaps a mistake, as that self-same Japanese tour group we’d encountered at Rampart Creek had checked in and taken over half the beds. Again, no room at the inn, however, we’d driven quite a way up the side of a mountain in the dark to get there and so were not really interested in returning to Jasper (also full) and diverting to Malinge Creek. Kat, the manager, taking pity on us, offered us mattresses on the floor at half price, so after inspecting the situation, we decided to take her up on the offer. I bagged the spot near the stove, while Gerg went in between two sets of bunks.
15/9/2002.
A rough night. The place was full and therefore pretty noisy, with several snorers entering the International Snore-Off, and someone mistaking me in the middle of the night for a rather thick floor mat. Fortunately for me, the person who stepped on my chest in the middle of the night was a small Japanese person, and no damage was done. As soon as that group left, we secured proper beds for that evening, and then hatched plans over breakfast. By this time I was seriously craving some private time – I’d realised I hadn’t been alone for two months, by this stage, and was getting cranky – so I decided on a solo hike up the Cavell Meadows and Gerg was going to potter around and do his own thing. After some food shopping in Jasper and some lunch.
The Cavell Meadows walk starts in the car park of the Angel Glacier, 2km up the road from the hostel. A nice warm-up, if you ignore the cars, as I did. From the car park, I joined the paved Glacier walk, and then diverted up into the small wooded hill nearby. Again, it was mostly uphill, but I had been itching for something harder to work out the kinks and alone I could go my own pace and not worry about slowing anyone down or making them feel they were slowing me down. The weather was cool and cloudy, but I’d packed my waterproofs, being a well-trained little hiker, and had plenty of water and munchies should I need them. I passed a crew of volunteers and Park staff maintaining the paths, and reached the first lookout in about an hour. The American couple I met there were amazed I was not only going to extend the walk, but go up higher.
The second section was much harder, being rockier and steeper. I got a great photo of another hiking group outlined against the sky on the top of the ridge that was my final goal – we nodded and exchanged gasped “Hi’s” as we passed each other. The final stint, only two hundred metres at the most, was the worst. All loose shale fragments, slipping out from under my feet, a very steep grade, and an ice-cold wind whistling straight down into my face. It had started to rain, so I’d put on the coat, which turned out to be a good idea. The view from the top was spectacular – talk about being on top of the world. I decided to make a little inukshuk, the pile of stones that say “I was here”, essentially, while catching my breath – the altitude was making it hard to recover, as well as incipient unfitness – and as I was crouched over my little pile of rocks, the weather did what mountain weather is famous for – it changed.
Snow. Cold, wet, sleety snow, straight into my face as I turned around. It came over in all of a minute, and I realised I was going to have to get moving again if I didn’t want to get too cold; the thing about my size is that I don’t deal with cold well, I get hypothermic in a hurry. So down I went, much faster than I’d ascended, almost skiing in some patches down the shale. I reached the forest again and the snow became light rain, and I merrily continued on my way, feeling the warm glow of achievement. Or perhaps it was the endorphins. Either way, I felt good. I caught up to the other group I’d seen at the bottom – they were English, and were watching a marmoset family on the trail. These are fairly large critters, so don’t qualify as LFDs, but are rather appealing any way – grey, about the size and look of a beaver, without the flat tail. Once we were able to pass, I continued down the path with their fastest walkers, until reaching the small lake at the bottom of the glacier where I caught up to Gerg, who’d decided on a stroll. We hung around, taking photos and watching a completely mad Japanese couple climb directly beneath the glacier to the cliff face. Now, considering the lake had large chunks of ice in it from avalanches, and there were warning signs everywhere about avalanches and crevasses, it was an incredibly dumb thing to do.
After twenty minutes or so I had to go, as the wind off the glacier had gotten more icy and I was losing feeling in my hands and feet. No, the Aussie doesn’t do cold well. Gerg stayed to be a witness to the untimely end of the Japanese (they were well beyond reach of a yell by the time anyone noticed them climbing up), and I started back to the hostel. I caught up to my English group again – they had some very slow walkers – and as I was trudging down the road, they came past in the car and offered me a lift. Being freezing, I accepted, and we had a good little chat about mad Japanese Tourists before getting to the hostel. It’s one of the nicest things about the Rockies. Apart from the scenery, that is. People are so nice and friendly to each other. I would dream of hitching in Australia, or anywhere else, but here it’s a lot safer. Lots of family groups and such.
The line-up at the hostel had changed by the time I got back – another tour group, this time a mixed bunch including two Aussies and an English guy, as well as two other Aussies (Paddy and Bec) travelling on their own. I thawed out in the kitchen and chatted, scored some food on account of looking cold and hungry, and waited for Gerg to get back. It was a couple of hours later, raining and getting dark, and I was starting to wonder if I should get someone to drive me up to look for him, when he arrived dramatically at the door, soaked through and proclaiming he was a little chilly. Typical Canadian. *rolls eyes* The rest of the evening passed by chatting to the other residents and getting high on chocolate, another substance we’ve been abstaining from.
17/9/2002.
Mt Edith Cavell Hostel is a nifty place. So nifty, in fact, that we decided to spend another night. The plans of the day, again hatched over breakfast, were to do a nice short-ish walk by the name of the Valley of Five Lakes, and then go to the hot springs in Miette about an hour’s drive from Banff. The walk was very pleasant, in the intermittent sunshine, with the deciduous trees turning all shades of autumn and the lakes varying shades of aquamarine. The hostel was on the way back, so we stopped and had left-over chilli (made by Gerg, and very good stuff) for lunch and then headed for the springs and another long soak. Too long – I started getting that woozy feeling soaking in very hot water gives me. Just as well there were no phone calls from telemarketers. *grins*
On our clean and refreshed return, I kicked Gerg out of the kitchen (almost literally – he came back in poking around and I growled at him) and made stir fry and noodles for dinner. Apparently we sound like an old married couple, the way we bicker/banter, a source of amusement for Kat. Marcos, a Spanish guy staying at the hostel, returned with a dramatic story about severe kidney pain at four in the morning and a trip to Jasper Hospital and the joys of morphine. Seems like he might have a kidney stone. He decided to spend the next day close to home (ie, on the couch in the common room), in case the pain returned. We sat around and chatted again, this time with a couple from San Francisco (whose names neither of us got, gah!), and passed another pleasant evening. We even took the bear awareness quiz, which I half-passed. Oh, and we saw elk on the way home from the spa.
18/9/2002.
Today, in fact. Wow. Let’s see, apart from sitting here for the past three hours trying to write everything down, we went out to Malinge Lake for a short hike (only 5km) to Moose Lake (and I did see a moose, on the way back!) and then back into town. Another quiet day, taking care of errands and hiding from the cold. Because it is cold out there – we chased autumn up the mountains from Banff to Jasper. It’ll be interesting to see how things fare in British Columbia – our next destination. We’re heading north, as far as I know, and then down to Vancouver.
I have to say, I could easily spend all my time here in the Rockies. It’s a definite return voyage; I’d like to come back sometime and do as Michael the Irishman was doing, hitching his way from Jasper to Banff, staying at hostels when he was sociable, camping out when he was not, taking his time and carrying all he needed. But that’s another trip that shall be made another time. :)
Off now – Gerg’s staring at me, waiting for me to finish so we can go post all this. Love to all.
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Re: *grins*
Date: 2002-09-25 07:32 pm (UTC)