"A Week in the Wilds" The following article was published in The
Wild Life, a local news magazine,
"When I finally reached the top of the ridge and peered over the other edge, I could hardly believe my eyes. There before me was the most beautiful landscape I've ever seen -- an alpine wonderland stretching in all directions, laced with gorges and gullies and bounded only by a distant sea of peaks. Five days of hell had been worth it, I was home now, in the untouched wilds of the Canadian Rockies." Friends had been telling me about this lost land of old for years. A gaping hole on the map; an unnamed valley chock full of unnamed creeks. A place wild and untamed, home to caribou, sheep, goats, grizzlies, wolverines and wolves. No trails, no developments, just wilderness. I began planning my solo trip in early June. I decided I would attempt a nine-day 95-kilometre circuit that would lead me through the valley. The heart of the trek, and the biggest challenge, would be a 55-kilometre off-trail stretch from Day 2 to Day 8. I took off on Wednesday, July 19th at daybreak. The first omen of things to come occurred thirty kilometers from Banff when my car got a flat tire. Four hours behind schedule, but undeterred, I set out on the trail with a pack on my back and soft ground underfoot. Even the thunderous-looking clouds darkening the skies at the trailhead couldn't dampen my spirits; my journey had begun. Within a kilometre, I began to realize that my pack was far too heavy and that I must have slipped something big and useless in there by accident. A quick pack search ensued. I considered dumping the fifteen pounds of camera gear I was lugging along. But what if I saw a grizzly or a beautiful sunset? I definitely couldn't dump any food, knowing that each gram of beef jerky and cashews would come in handy down the road. Clothes? Couldn't sacrifice anything there, the toque might end up saving my life. So in the end I put up with the pain and lurched onward, me and my enormous pack, on the trail again, feeling sort of good.
I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of rain lightly falling against my tent. I decided to get up and get going, packing quickly before embarking up a nearby ridge. After a grueling slog up a shale slope, the rainstorm mushroomed into a mini hurricane complete with screaming winds and thick blankets of fog. To make matters worse, the ridge I was supposed to go over had a huge snow cornice hanging off of the other side. "Okay, don't panic," I thought to myself. "If you just wait out the storm, it'll clear off and you'll be able to see where the heck you are." It was decent logic, but the storm didn't buy it. After five hours of hunching behind a tiny rock on the ridge, I decided enough was enough. Totally disgusted with myself, I announced in my mind that it was all over -- mission aborted. The aborted mission lasted exactly two hours. That's when I decided that I would retrace my steps toward my car and do the circuit in the opposite direction. It would be a punishing seven days covering 115 kilometres over four 2500-metre passes, but I figured it was better than giving up and going home early.
I got up to the dreaded sound of rain again on Day 4. For the first time, I began to wish that I was with someone so they would have to listen to me whine and moan about how bad the weather was. By mid-morning the rain was still coming down, so when it slowed temporarily I hurriedly packed up and moved on, plunging into a moon-like valley carved and potholed by the recent retreat of a glacier. That afternoon, I witnessed some of nature's greatest shows. Mountain goats and their kids bouncing away from me on sheer rock walls, broods of ptarmigan with tiny chicks dashing about all over the place in a panic, and finally, rounding a small hill, the rare and elusive mountain caribou. I came face to face with a cow who stood there eyeing me curiously from fifty metres away. Her cute little calf bounced around her checking me out before they turned and wandered off. By the time I saw the caribou, I was getting tired, so I set up in another abandoned creek bed; the only flat place I could find. After a fine meal of "Big Bill's Rice and Beans" and a healthy helping of ju-jubes, I thought to myself what a fine life living out of a backpack was. My "fine life out of a backpack" disappeared in a flash that night. Out of nowhere, a storm appeared and began to pound and lash at my tent. I had hung my food out over a small cliff to keep it away from bears, and midway through the storm I looked out and saw that the rope that was supposed to be suspending my food sacks was limp and blowing around -- the sacks had snapped off in the wind, sending my food plummeting to whatever lay below. My food was gone and my tent was threatening to buckle under the winds. Water was seeping in through the small river that was now flowing under my tent in the once-abandoned channel. All I could think about was that I was alone, over fifty kilometres from the nearest road and over forty kilometres from the nearest trail. It was the most discouraging night I have ever experienced. Alas, I lived to tell the story. Barely. Through the magic of plastic garbage bags I was able to keep my sleeping bag and clothes dry. When the storm subsided a bit in the morning, I hiked down around the cliff and retrieved what was left of my food. Just before noon I packed up in the rain again and headed onward, surging for the ridge top that would lead me into the vast unnamed alpine valley that was my goal. As I neared the crest of the ridge, it stopped raining and began to clear up a bit, setting the stage for what I was about to see on the other side. I stepped up onto that ridge and was swept away in a wave of disbelief. It was so incredibly big and beautiful. A rich splattering of greens and browns across a pristine landscape as wide open as anything I have ever seen in the mountains. It was one gigantic wild space, and I got so excited I nearly lost it. I spent an hour sitting there scanning the valley floor with binoculars searching for the hundreds of grizzlies and caribou and woolly mammoths and stuff that I was sure had to be down there. I had to settle for a herd of ninety-one bighorn sheep. Ninety-one! When I actually got down into the valley and approached the sheep, they let me walk between them as if humans were the kindest and gentlest of creatures. I spent the entire afternoon crossing from one side of the valley to the other, south to north. Each gorge and gully separating the alpine islands was littered with signs of wildlife. I spotted caribou tracks, bear droppings, sheep bones, even part of a caribou jaw bone. Every two minutes or so I would spot a huge white speck in a distant meadow and stare at it for ages before convincing myself that it was just a rock, not a monstrous blonde grizzly. Then suddenly, near the end of the valley, one of those white specks moved. And another, and another. In total, there were five caribou and they were at least a kilometre away from me, but I still sat there and marveled at them for a half-hour.
I covered 35 kilometres that day, stopping only when I finally reached a trail and then a real backcountry campground. I was tired and I was extremely sore. Most of all though, I'd had enough of solo backpacking for a while. On Day 6, three days short of nine, I trudged through the mud and the rain to another spectacular sight -- the trailhead parking lot and my car. The trip was over, my body was saying thank you, and my mind was already starting to think back and remember. In six days I covered 135 kilometres of terrain, 45 on trails, 90 off of them. I saw land that very few people ever get a chance to see and I saw sights that no one else will ever see. For three and a half days I did not see a single human track. I was lonely and proud at the same time. Scared that if I fell and got injured it might mean the difference between life and death, but ecstatic that I was out there experiencing nature at its core. For weeks afterwards, I complained about what a horrible trip I'd had. But day by day, the bad memories of storms, steep climbs and lost food faded, and the good times, the memories of that valley, grew stronger and stronger. Now, a month later, I realize that it was hell, but it was worth it, because I got to go home, to the untouched wilds of the Canadian Rockies. |
I spent the first night nestled beside a
vacant creek bed at 2400 metres, listening to pikas voice
their disenchantment about having to share their cozy
spot with a lanky backpacker and his tent. 
On Day 3 I covered
20 kilometres and set up camp in a gorgeous open alpine
valley with crusted peaks and glaciers surrounding me.
The skies began to clear in late afternoon, so I explored
around and quickly found sign of grizzlies, caribou and
wolverines, then spent the evening by a glacier-fed
stream watching the alpenglow colours of the sunset dance
with the shadows of the night. It was a perfect evening
for a backpacker; reflective and solemn, yet
invigorating. 
As I reached the
head of the valley, I had a very strange feeling creep up
on me. As much as I loved the valley, I didn't want to
stay there. I don't know if it was loneliness I felt, or
vulnerability, or if it was just the sight of another
storm approaching. Whatever the reason, I decided to push
on over the ridge that had initially turned me back
almost a week earlier. With my last look back at the
valley I saw something I've never seen before; a lost
land of old -- pure wilderness.