Lake Louise, Alberta June 15-17, 1978
Yesterday (June 14th) it rained, so I spent the day in Banff, sightseeing at the Banff Springs Hotel, the hot springs and the 'Silver City Saloon'. Did the necessary shopping for provisions, eschewing the tacky tourist shops with their gaggles of camera-laden customers. Banff's a pleasant enough town, but not what I'm looking for right now, thanks very much.
The next morning I woke to a promising looking day and set off up Johnston's Canyon to the 'ink pots'. Terrific hike for the first bit – on a paved walkway suspended from the steep rock sides of a fast-flowing creek – the creek very aqua-marine in colour, full of glacial flour. I got almost to the pots when it started to rain! So I didn’t stay long before heading back down.
I packed up my gear and drove, through mist and clouds, to Lake Louise, where the sun peaked out for just a few minutes, treating me to a spectacular view of the fabled aqua-marine Lake Louise.
I wanted to do some hikes in the area, and decided, given the cold, to take a room at the Deer Lake Lodge. There is nothing quite as soothing, quite as wonderful, as a long hot shower. And then slipping into a soft bed with clean sheets. Bliss. Absolute bliss.
This morning I set out early to hike the Paradise Valley Circuit – 11 miles. I came across a porcupine not far from the trailhead. It was the first one I’d ever seen, and was much bigger than I had imagined. We had a staring match for several minutes, neither of us willing to give ground or turn tail (as it were). Actually I did most of the staring. He or she continued chewing, beaver-like, at the 'trail closed' sign, looking at me out of the corner of one eye, and bristling up his quills when I moved to get my camera. I decided to forego the photo op, just in case. But regardless of my stillness he must have decided my presence alone was too much of a threat. He turned his back to me – his quills standing up in a fan from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail, an impressively menacing display of sharp yellow needles – and off he lumbered.
Disregarding the ‘trail closed’ sign, and unconcerned about the lack of other hikers on the trail, I carried on, now climbing on an easy trail with good footing through a fairly dense coniferous forest – mostly pine and spruce. Beautiful lichens and mosses on rocks, trees, logs. Colourful yellows and oranges as well as the usual blue-grey-greens. I was humming right along, feeling pleased with the prospect of a nice hike on a sunny day, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might encounter a bear. I realized I had no idea what to do. I was pretty sure running or climbing a tree were not smart or effective choices. Could I toss it my pack and hope it would provide enough of a distraction to enable me to slowly, quietly, make my escape? Can one reason with a bear, using soft words (even if not carrying a big stick to back them up). I’d heard that if you make enough noise, bears will hear you coming and keep out of your way, no keener for encounters than we are. So I started stomping my feet and talking to myself as I hiked up the trail. But that used far too much energy. I needed another strategy. Fortunately I had the answer with me – my trusty harmonica was in my backpack. And so my harmonica became my 'bearmonica'.
After a few hours, the last part of which was a very steep climb through patches of deep snow, I came to Lake Annette – an ice-covered alpine lake with the spectacular Mount Temple behind it.
It began to rain, hard. I decided to wait it out, peeled an orange, and considered my options. Would I head back the way I came, or complete the circuit by carrying on up over the saddle and down the other side of the valley? For me, as someone who consistently, if not advisedly, rises to a challenge, there was little hesitation. As the rain eased I started scrambling up the rock slide. I haven’t hiked on anything quite like this before – beautiful big rocks covered with green and orange lichen – but not particularly stable. So I made my way tentatively, testing each step before trusting it with my full weight. It was a system of trial and error, with just enough error to get my adrenalin going. This may have been a good thing, as I needed it for the rest of the climb.
I came across snow about half-way up the saddle and decided to head for an area of larches towards the edge of the slide. Still picking my way, hopping from rock to rock, holding on to tree branches when possible. But inevitably there were rockless, treeless patches of snow that had to be crossed. One was particularly large. I stepped out gingerly onto the snowy surface. It held. Another step, fine. It seemed there was a solid crusty layer on top – or perhaps the snow just wasn’t that deep. I couldn’t tell, and didn’t do what I ought to have done, which is used a stick to measure the depth. Instead, I just struck out – as it were – and my next step did not hold. I found myself waist-deep in snow, and with every little wriggle I sunk deeper. But still my feet could feel no bottom. It was then that it occurred to me that the ‘stunted’ larches I thought I was seeing might not be stunted at all. I was just seeing the tops of trees, not the whole tree. This was not a happy or reassuring realization. Worse yet no one knew I was out here, on a closed trail. So no one would be looking. And I was woefully unprepared, with just a light-weight jacket to keep me warm, and half bottle of water, an apple, some cheese and crackers, and a few nuts to keep me – sort of – from dehydration and the lethargy of too little food over too long a time.
But. But. As it was abundantly clear that I had to extricate myself from this situation, that there would be no dramatic helicopter rescue, I did the most logical thing I could think of. I thrust my upper body onto the snowy surface and started swimming. Like a seal, slithering and sliding, I managed to reach a large rock, where I anchored myself and again surveyed my situation. I was very close to the top, and felt disinclined to retrace my ‘steps’, not wanting to risk another fall through the beautiful but obviously thin veneer of snow that covered almost the entire landscape. Fortunately I spied just enough rocks and trees that by groping and grabbing, I managed to reach the top, and the return trail – across a talus slope mercifully bare of snow. Unfortunately it ended in another snowy expanse, with no indication of which way to go. My recent experience shrieking warnings in my brain, I was unwilling to take my chances with an unknown field of snow. So with no small amount of trepidation I went back the way I’d come. This time, however, I slid down the snowy patched on my bum. Hardly graceful or heroic, but I did reach the Lake Annette, from where I knew the going was easy. I was soaking wet and a little bruised, but all in one piece, and pretty chuffed to have made it at all.
Agnes Lake Teahouse or Plain of Six Glacers Teahouse, viewed from Annette Lake.
I sat by the lake and celebrated my good luck with a picnic of cheese, crackers, an apple and some sunflower seeds. I shared the sunflower seeds with a half-dozen gophers. Like my chipmunk friend in Manning Park, these little beggars were clearly accustomed to hand-outs from hikers. But perhaps not at this time of year (the trail is, after all, ‘closed’). I strolled the rest of the way down the trail nonchalantly, no longer bothering even to use my bearmonica. It wasn’t that I felt invincible; more like ‘what are the chances of another close call?’
My porcupine friend was waiting for me not far from where I’d spotted it the first time. I wanted to share the story of my adventure with it, but thought the better of it when I realized its response would as likely as not be: ‘what kind of fool are you?’ Ha ha. A lucky fool.
Note: If you're keen to hike in the Lake Louise area, here's a good site with information on all of the trails, including the Paradise Valley and Giant Steps trail that I was on: https://www.pc.gc.ca/en/pn-np/ab/banff/activ/randonee-hiking/lakelouise#paradisegiant
Comments
Post a Comment