Sparrowhawk Tarns - 11.2 km - August 6

Sometimes, one has to hike a shorter hike merely because one has a strong desire to place a checkmark next to the hike in one’s trail guide.  This is the reason I decided to tackle Sparrowhawk Tarns on August 6, 2011. 

Nodding onion (Allium cernuum)

Nicky, my tirelessly faithful hiking partner, was unavailable on August 6.  My friend Lisa had expressed interest in hiking with me at some point, and so I decided that Sparrowhawk would make the ideal initiation trip for her – not too long, but still some marvelous and photo-worthy panoramas at the top. 

As is typical for me, I did not eat breakfast before we left.  I rarely wake up hungry.  It never seems to cross my mind before I leave the house that I will likely be hungry in a few hours; for some reason my lack of appetite upon waking feels as if it may be permanent, and I’ll never need food again.  Not surprisingly, by the time we got to Canmore, my stomach was chewing a hole in my ribcage.  I pulled in at the Nordic Centre and asked the sandwich-making man behind the deli counter to construct me his finest veggie sandwich with the works.  Sadly, “the works” included enormous globs of guacamole, and by the time we had reached the trailhead, the sandwich had all but disintegrated into a sodden mass of barely recognizable, and no longer edible, ingredients.  I couldn’t eat it.  But I was between a rock and a hard place:  what if, by the time I reached the summit, I was so desperately hungry that guacamole porridge was suddenly fit for human consumption?  It was all I had.  So I packed that ghastly thing over the entire 11 kilometres of Sparrowhawk Tarns.

Marine fossils

Despite the fact that the parking lot is on the west side of the Smith-Dorrien Trail, about 23 kilometres south of Whiteman’s Gap, the trailhead for Sparrowhawk begins on the east side of the highway.  It carves sideways up a steep grassy slope before disappearing into the cool shade of a thick forest.  Just as the trail guide had warned, the first twelve minutes are grueling.  Not ten, not fifteen; twelve.  Much to my disappointment, the trail guide was surprisingly accurate.  I had hoped to prove it wrong and break records and complete that section in ten minutes.  I guess I was off my game. 

Yellow columbine (Aquilegia flavescens)

This brief yet steep section affords decent views of the Spray Lake reservoir before being swallowed up again by the dreary forest.  At 0.9 km we passed a fork branching off to our left.  This fork heads northward to Read’s Tower, a demanding ten kilometre loop that presents over 1,100 metres of gain.  It’s on my to-do list.  We continued generally southeast, paralleling Sparrowhawk Creek.  The creek is too far down in a steep gully to be much use to dogs, so hikers are encouraged to pack water for their pooches. 

At about the 2 kilometre mark, the trail gradually began to emerge from the trees as the terrain became subalpine.  It was while I had taken off my pack to get low to the ground and photograph some bright yellow wildflowers that Lisa noticed a marine fossil embedded in a broad smooth rock in the middle of the path.  And once we’d noticed one, we started seeing dozens more.  The trail guide made no mention of the marine fossils on this trail, but it is not uncommon to stumble across piles of fossil-laden talus at these elevations.  I’ve seen them on several trails in Kananaskis.  The secret trail around Upper Galatea Lake has an astronomical concentration of marine fossils on the loose shale slopes under The Tower (3,117 m).  And so we paused to photograph the delicate little beauties. 

Breaking out of the trees onto the boulder field

By the 3 kilometre mark the trail had broken out of the trees and exploded onto a vast hillside dotted with scattered boulders, the desolate skeletal remains of a once-proud forest of tamarack that had long since perished in either a landslide or a fire, and several highly opinionated pikas that were easier to hear than to see.  The trail becomes more cryptic here.  Initially we bore left towards the obvious final destination of the valley surrounded by the great walls of Mount Buller (2,805 m) and Mount Bogart (3,144 m), but then realized that a cairn, far off to our right, marked the more likely route.  And so we bore right temporarily while we skirted under Buller’s north face and then straightened out again and headed southeast.  The trail is occasionally visible here as it scrambles and winds steadily up a grassy slope cratered with fresh grizzly digs.  The soil was still moist in these places where the big bruin had torn up the ground in search of ground squirrels or tender juicy roots and shoots.  I kept a hopeful and watchful eye on the horizon and my finger on the shutter button of my Nikon.  Come on, bear.  Show yourself!

A cairn marking our trail

There are several areas here where the trail is anybody’s guess.  A GemTrek map and a basic knowledge of route-finding will ensure you ultimately make it to the sink lake and the tarns, even if the trail is conspicuous by its absence.  The grassy slopes give way to boulders and massive talus that require careful navigating to avoid injuring valuable joints. Just over 5 kilometres from the trailhead, one is thrust over a final rise and into a broad expanse of heather, dryas, talus, and low, twisted and stunted shrubs.

The terrain here is variable, depending on the time of year you arrive.  Earlier in the season there will be several creeklets and waterfalls connecting numerous ice-cold tarns.  On our arrival in early August, there were only two tarns to be found.  We explored all that there was to explore.  Lisa hunkered down out of the chilly wind among some boulders to munch on a PB&J sandwich while I scampered over another rise and explored spongy meadows of moss, sodden bogs, streams, and the formidable tower of Mount Bogart at the southeast end of the valley.  Had I been alone, I could easily have spent another few hours in this paradise, bounding from one rise to the next, investigating every last little nook and crevice. 

Thirsty dog heading for the sink lake

Remembering that I needed to consider the needs of my hiking partner, I cut my adventure short and we turned and headed for home.  The descent was decidedly more challenging than the ascent, however.  My previously injured knee was beginning to throb.  It had felt alright on the way up the mountain, but whatever this injury was, it was consistently more painful on the downward strides.  At one point, I was briefly distracted from my physical pain by the antics of two hoary marmots (Marmota monax) as they whistled to one another across the boulders.  And then, with a stroke of luck, I was able to photograph a marmot and a pika in the same shot.  I won’t likely be able to recreate that moment for the rest of my hiking career. 

One of the tarns at Sparrowhawk

The pain in my right knee was intensifying with each brutal step forward.  I adopted a sideways gait to lateralize the instability in my knee, thereby avoiding the anterior-posterior instability that was causing the hot-poker stabs of pain behind my patella.  And when we reached the fork to Read’s Tower, we caught a glimpse of three other hikers and their massive shaggy Chow about to reconnect with the main trail.  Fender does indescribably poorly when he is leashed and asked to face a strange dog.  And so, in order to avoid a conflict, I quickened our pace.  We shot past the fork in the trail before they reached the junction, and were well ahead of them in a short time. 

It didn’t take me long to realize that these were no ordinary hikers.  Evidently, all of their knees were intact and comfortable, because they were gaining on us at an alarming rate.  How could this be?  I am such an amazingly strong hiker, it simply didn’t make sense that other hikers might actually be catching up to me.  I pounded harder down the trail.  I clenched my teeth in order to tolerate the blinding pain exploding from my knee with each stride.  It was no use.  Let them pass.

Fringed grass of Parnassus (Parnassia fimbriata)

My pride took a mortal blow when I was forced to take a brief recess a few metres off the trail, holding Fender’s nose so he was looking directly at me and not towards the Chow.  Once they had passed, I slowed my pace to a more comfortable crawl.  And then, on one excruciating step, my right knee buckled to the ground.  I let out a cry of agony and stopped, hands on my knees, bent over at the waist, gasping for breath.  What on earth was wrong with this knee?  It couldn’t possibly be injured.  I felt too young to have a joint injury.  I had 175 km of hiking planned for August alone, including the epic five-day adventure to Mount Assiniboine.  How would I do Assiniboine if I couldn’t walk?  I couldn’t think about that now.  I was within two kilometres of the truck, and I needed to get home. 

Lisa was visibly worried.  She was now the strongest hiker of the group, and this was her first hike.  Ever.  I covered the last few hundred metres of Sparrowhawk as if I was walking on shards of broken glass in ballet slippers.  My body was suddenly geriatric, and it made me angry.  All I could think about was the comfort of my truck, now within sight, and the fact that I would soon be seated and swapping hiking boots for flip flops. 

Despite its wild and desolate beauty, I will forever remember Sparrowhawk Tarns as the hike that made me realize that I was in big trouble.  The 90 km Mount Assiniboine adventure was ten days away, and I was crippled beyond words.  I drove home with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.

Headwall Lakes - 14 km - August 28, 2011

The need to conquer Headwall Lakes was borne out of a desire to satisfy three separate yet equally intense cravings.  Firstly, the Headwall Lake trail roughly parallels the Chester Lake trail, and the two can be combined into a loop if, at the seventh kilometre, one has the energy to merely scramble the extra 490 metres over the 2,710 metre col between The Fortress (3,000 m) and Mount Chester (3,054 m) at the end of the Headwall Lake trail.  This would enable one to accomplish two hikes in one day.  Secondly, the Chester Lake trail had been closed all summer due to grizzly activity.  If Chester was still closed, my theory was that there may perhaps be covert grizzly activity spilling over into the Headwall Lakes valley; that is, if the grizzlies felt like scrambling the 490 metres over the 2,710 metre col between The Fortress and Mount Chester and into the Headwall Lakes valley.  And thirdly, Headwall is just a really, really cool name.

Large rockslide across the trail

I tackled Headwall with my gritty and uncomplaining friend Lisa on August 28, 2011.  I was six weeks into a bilateral knee injury, and was eager to not only try out my new pair of knee-preserving trekking poles but to also prove that the awesomest hikers don’t really need knees after all.  The day was cloudless and blissfully warm by my definition; searingly hot by the standards of others.  The trailhead would begin in the same parking lot as Chester Lake, which would enable us to ensure the Chester Lake trail was open before embarking.  We were inhospitably welcomed by a gate of yellow tape stretched across the Chester Lake trailhead and flapping in the breeze, placed there by parks staff to keep eager grizzly chasers out of Chester for the second summer in a row.  Sadly, my shrewd plans to plead ignorance and scramble through to Chester Lake from Headwall Lakes were foiled by parks staff.  In a concerted effort to stay one jump ahead of Jody, they had erected an all too unmistakable sign at the trailhead of Headwall, clearly indicating that if one was caught scrambling into the Chester Lake valley from the Headwall Lakes valley, one would be subject to punishment in serious ways.  With a disgruntled huff, we set off on the Headwall Lakes trail, knowing that we would ultimately be required to return the same way we had come. 

The first headwall - beyond is the first lake

The first segment of this trail bears east-southeast on a network of cross country ski trails.  I made a mental note to revisit the area on snowshoes in a few months once several metres of the horrible white stuff had blanketed my beloved rocks, dirt, and weeds.  Climbing steadily but not entirely exhaustingly, the first few kilometres were behind us within an hour.   At 3.7 km we crossed a wide wooden bridge spanning the rushing Headwall Creek.  The air was blissfully cool and refreshing here, and Fender indulged in a long-awaited and cooling swim.  Immediately after the creek crossing, the trail took a hairpin turn to the right and climbed steeply for a few hundred yards.  The trail guide had cautioned us to watch closely for our path branching off the main cross country trail.  A very large rock cairn made the narrow and hidden fork unmistakable.  Heading generally north-northeast, we wound through a cool coniferous forest along a rugged and rooty track.  The elevation gain eased here as the trail began to parallel Headwall Creek. 

Waterfall draining the second Headwall Lake

The path emerged from the forest once or twice and forged through thick and overgrown deciduous shrubs choking the creek.  There were several areas where we needed to push the branches apart to pass through the shrubs.  Eventually we emerged from the dense growth to the edge of a broad and impressive rockslide.  At first I was a bit disconcerted, as crossing a slew of boulders with two wrecked knees wasn’t my idea of a safe and relaxing experience.  Mercifully, the actual route skirted around the west side of the rockslide on a gentle and grassy path.  We were scolded by pikas, obviously annoyed by our intrusion.  Looking west across Headwall Creek, we gazed up at the verdant edifice of Mount Chester and scoured the slopes fruitlessly for any photographable grizzly activity.  The impressive massif of Mount James Walker (3,035 m) loomed grandly on our right as we rounded the rockslide and turned slightly east at the base of a thunderous cascade.  The trail climbed severely steeply here, and gained 50 metres within a few minutes.  Our hands touched the ground more than once, and we made good use of exposed tree roots as we grappled our way up the nearly 50% grade. 

First Headwall Lake

Huffing and puffing at the top of the climb, we took a breather on a little side trail that afforded a decent view of the head of the waterfall we had just circumvented.  The trail then carried us over the first headwall to the first of two aptly named Headwall Lakes.  From here the trail was easy-breezy as it darted over limestone slabs, around the east shore of the first lake, and along a creek and up its waterfall to the second lake. 

The ambient temperature at the second lake was in the very high twenties, and my knees were screaming profanities.  We were exhausted.  I popped a few Tylenols and told the knees to shut up.  I was tempted to coerce Lisa into ascending the 2,710 metre col between The Fortress and Mount Chester with me just to teach the park staff a sound lesson.  But upon deeper thought, I realized they would likely not even be aware of my rebellious insubordination, rendering my defiance nearly pointless.  This understanding, coupled with the fact that I could barely keep my eyes open despite the incessant and deafening din emanating from my knees, persuaded me to take a brief rest, eat three bites of nauseating trail mix, and turn and head for home. 

Handicapped with a bum knee but loving life

Regardless of the grandeur of the views on the first half of any hike, doubling back along familiar territory is often an anticlimactic experience as the scenery is déjà-vu and therefore uninspiring.  The last four kilometres of the Headwall Lakes trail took the cake for never-ending drudgery.  Each corner we rounded seemed as if it should certainly be our last.  Where on earth was the parking lot?  Had we taken a wrong turn?  Surely the trail in hadn’t been this long.  And just as I was regretting not bringing my backpacking stove, water purifier, and tent to protect and sustain us through an unplanned night in the woods, the blessed and beautiful barren emptiness of the parking lot appeared like an oasis through a break in the foliage.  Swapping my hiking boots for flip-flops has rarely felt so good.

All told, the return trip was a mere 14 kilometres.  Not epic by any standards.  But there was something satisfyingly and blissfully exhausting about this trail.  Perhaps it was the heat.  Perhaps it was the throbbing knees.  Certainly there had been hard-earned and rousing vistas.  Regardless of the cause of the exhaustion, it was that satisfying and blissful exhaustion that ranks a trail as outstanding in my book.  And Headwall Lakes was outstanding in every possible way.  

Piper Pass - 24 km - September 4, 2011

Piper Pass was a backup plan.  A Plan B.  A security trail. 

My heart was originally set on Paradise Valley and the Giant’s Steps in Lake Louise.  This 20 kilometre loop was to be my purposeful distraction on a date that would otherwise likely be fraught with emotional distress and heartache.  It was September 4.  And every year, on the anniversary of my dad’s unexpected passing, I would frantically plan diversions for my restless mind and aching heart in advance of the dreaded day. 

Looking towards Piper Pass from the Tombstone trail

This year, my intent was to recreate a photograph of my dad that was captured in the mid-1970s (this same photograph can be seen on the dedication page of this book).  He was posing on the Giant’s Steps in a mustard yellow tank top, green bandanna, and faded bell-bottom blue jeans.  I was determined to photograph myself in the same pose and in similar clothes and on the exact same boulders that my dad used as his backdrop almost forty years earlier.  And so, much of my spare time in August was spent poring over online photographs of the Giant’s Steps in modern times, trying to find the same angle and the same rocks that dad had used.  On September 1, I frantically scoured Calgary’s more unconventional clothing stores for a mustard yellow tank top. 

I had the location staked out in my mind.  I had my wardrobe gathered.  And the night before our departure, I received a text message from Nicky, my hiking partner, that the Paradise Valley trail was closed to groups of fewer than four hikers due to grizzly activity.  Traveling through such areas with fewer than the required number of hikers is a serious offense, and the potential fines are steep.  Not only would the fine be well beyond the reaches of my tight budget (which I’d just blown on the $12 mustard yellow tank top), but the restrictions were in place for a purpose, and that purpose was to protect grizzlies.  It wasn’t worth it. 

And so, through the ensuing tears and sniffles, I resigned myself to Piper Pass.  At least I’d be hiking.  At least I’d be distracted.  At least I’d be doing what dad was doing forty years ago.  And I’d be quieting my mind by annihilating my body.  I was blissfully unaware of the degree of annihilation that was to come. 

The approach to Piper Pass shares the same trailhead as Tombstone and Rae Lakes.  Readers who are paying attention will recall my description of Tombstone and Rae Lakes earlier in this book in which I eloquently described the miserable icy deluge that saturated Nicky and I to the bone in August of 2010.    Surely this day had to end better. 

We had a moderately early start around 10 a.m.; early enough that the dew was still sparkling and frosty on the shaded shrubs, rocks, and flowers; late enough that we couldn’t quite see our breath.  The sun was shining and, aided by the incredibly steep climb along the wide path that departs the east side of the parking lot at the Elbow Pass day use area, we warmed quickly. 

Elbow Lake

The first 1.3 kilometres of this trail rocketed our elevation from 1,963 metres to 2,105 metres within the first 25 minutes.  I have always found this part of the trail dreary and tiresome.  It is choked with other hikers, many with offleash dogs, and is as noisy as a food court.  I am always in a great hurry to skedaddle past the campsite and round the west shore of Elbow Lake as I make a break for the peaceful solitude of the wilderness passes beyond the bustle of the lake. 

At the north end of the lake the trail veered east across a well-maintained footbridge before regaining its northward course.  For several kilometres past the lake, the trail is on familiar territory.  Where the common trail winds eastward towards the Tombstone and Rae Lakes, we began searching for a northbound fork in the direction of Piper Pass.  The pass was clearly evident.  We knew exactly the direction we were to be heading, but we couldn’t seem to find a path leading us up the Piper Creek canyon.  Our trail guide indicated that strong route-finding skills would be required in order to skillfully negotiate this northbound fork.  What the book failed to mention was that strong route-finding skills were necessary in order to find the fork in the first place.  And so, by necessity, we carried on towards the long, yet well-marked approach described in the guide.

Fresh snow in the alpine meadow

After several wrong turns and failed attempts, we finally located our well-marked fork at the 5.1 km mark.  The trail slides down a steep embankment before crossing a deep stream and then clambering back up an embankment on the other side of the water.  The trail guide briefly touched on a necessary ford of the Elbow River at this point of the trail, but without further elaboration, my mind assumed we’d be able to rock-hop across the creek.  Neither of us was prepared for the knee-deep torrent that greeted us at the bottom of the embankment.  We hadn’t brought Keens.  Our only two choices were to either strip off our boots and socks and wade across the glacier water in our bare feet, or to risk ruining our expensive footgear and slog the rest of the trail in squishy wet boots.  We both opted for the former.

Now, let me explain something to you.  The water that flows in these high alpine streams is not warm.  It is not even tepid.  And to call it cold would be to insult the word “cold”.  These streams are freezing!  And the slippery algae-covered stones on the creek bed multiply the misery one hundredfold.  Our stream wasn’t particularly wide – probably only ten feet across – but hypothermia and shock took hold at about the six inch mark.  And you can’t run across, because the sharp stones on the bottom will slice up your tender feet.  So you must wade across with care, while sharp stabs of icy frozen hell shoot from your toes up through your core to the back of your eyes.  Invariably, there is cursing. 

On the opposite bank, we sat in the mud, dripping wet and gasping, waiting for our spinal reflexes to relax and cease their yelping.  Drying ourselves off with our socks and jackets, we replaced our hiking boots and set off.  I took the ensuing silence to mean that we were both thinking the same thing:  unless we found the secretive fork of the short approach on the way back, we’d have to ford the Elbow River a second time on our return voyage.

Once we had warmed up, our spirits lifted.  The sun was still bright and warm, and the indigo sky was cloudless and cheerful.  The trail was climbing gently through dense forest, and all was right with the world.  Surely we would soon be soaring on vast open alpine meadows and scampering gleefully with the ground squirrels.  Half an hour later, we were still trudging through this lackluster forest.  How boring!  Where were these meadows, and why hadn’t we reached them yet?  We reached the Piper Creek crossing, which, mercifully, was a dry bed of rocks, and continued northwestward towards meadows that were certainly just around the next corner. 

One bright spot in the middle of a dreary trail was that I caught sight of our secretive fork heading back towards Elbow Lake on the elusive short cut.  Elated, we knew that the trek home would be slightly more merciful.

After another half hour, our spirits were gloomy and our heads were held low.  This had to be the most dreary and tiresome stretch of trail we’d ever experienced.  There were still no views.  Each foot of trail looked identical to the last thousand feet.  I felt as if we were wandering pointlessly on the dark side of the moon.

About an hour too late, the trees finally thinned and boulder-strewn meadows rose to meet us.  At long last, we had a wide expanse of scenery to take in.  We parked ourselves in the lee of a massive erratic boulder in order to escape the bite of the chilly wind, and snacked on cheese and crackers.  Nicky gave the dogs milkbones.  We debated at this point whether to turn and head for home or to continue on towards the pass.  Looking ahead, we could tell that attaining the pass would require a steep hard climb with about 200 metres of gain over a lateral distance of about 300 metres.  My knee was throbbing.  We decided to go for it.  Placing a checkmark at the end of the day next to “Piper Pass” in our trail guides would feel like cheating if we didn’t actually crest the pass.  So crest it we did.

Looking over Piper Pass into the valley below

The shale was loose on this final ascent, and I was suddenly immensely grateful for my new pair of trekking poles.  Fender and I crested the summit in about 20 minutes; Nicky and Rory were a few minutes behind us.  Beyond the pass, the trail does actually continue on to the West Fork of the Elbow River trail, but the descent down into the valley is treacherous.  We had done what we came to do, and it was time to go home. 

I was eager to find that fork in the trail that would lead us along the shorter route back to Elbow Lake.  Not having to ford the Elbow River would bring me a great deal of satisfaction.  We located the south-branching fork, and with a great deal of self-approval for spotting the fork in the first place, I led the way.  It did not take me long to realize that this fork was nothing more than a worthless detour that rejoined our long approach path within 20 yards or so.  What was the point of that?  I was bitter and angry and tired and sore.  And I was filled with dread, knowing that the ford of the Elbow River was ahead of us. 

Red line shows our path

We slid and scurried down the steep and loose embankment to the edge of the river.  The water sure didn’t look much warmer than it had this morning, and it was certainly no less deep or turbulent.  Instead of resigning myself to the inevitable, however, I decided to be cunning.  I had been a track and field star in the seventh grade.  Surely there had to be a point along this river where it narrowed just barely enough for my giraffe-like stride to carry me gracefully over the river in one big long jump.  I paced back and forth along the bank, twisting my body through the sharp branches of various evil shrubs and slipping once or twice in the mud.  And then I found my spot. 

The stellar powers of my keen mind began calculating the very advanced physics equations required to safely negotiate this obstacle with skill and poise.  I lined up on the correct trajectory, took two swift strides to build up speed, and sailed over the river with what was certainly record breaking talent and dexterity.  I looked down at my feet.  Perfectly warm, comfortable, and dry.  Wow.  I truly was amazing. 

And so I thought it was my duty to help my shorter-limbed hiking partner to find a way across the creek.  We found a suitable point of crossing and I grasped the branches of a tree securely in one hand, braced myself, and extended my hiking pole towards her outstretched fingertips.  She grabbed hold, jumped, and I simultaneously pulled with all my power and might so that she might fly across the stream nearly as gracefully as I had done moments earlier.  With Nicky secure on the shore, I did an about-face to head up the steep embankment. 

As I turned, without warning, my left foot slipped out from under me and sent me crashing with an unforgettable splash into the thigh-high icy depths of the Elbow River.  Losing all control of the decorum I’d worked so hard to establish, I shrieked and gripped the tree branch and hauled myself out onto the muddy shore.  I stood there, dripping and with a look of shock upon my face.  I looked down at my feet.  My left boot had filled with melted ice.  My heart sank.  I hiked the last 5.1 km back to the truck with my left foot making various squishy noises and my pride thoroughly extinguished and buried in the bottom of my backpack where it belonged.

All told, Piper Pass added an astounding 24 kilometres to my hiking log, and demanded at least eight hours of my life.  It beat me up and wore me out and tried to drown me.  Would I do Piper Pass again?  Ummm, nope.  Would I recommend it to a friend?  Absolutely.  Especially if that friend was looking for a worthwhile adventure that would distract them from the painful memory of losing their dad.  And for helping me through September 4, 2011, I am eternally grateful to you, Piper Pass. 

Yamnuska - 13 km

Prairie crocus (Pulsatilla patens)

Yamnuska (2,240 m) is by no means the most magnificent hike I've ever done.  It isn't sensational, it isn't epic, and it isn't particularly exciting in any great way.  But what Yamnuska does offer is a fabulous opportunity to hit the trail very early in the season, before any of the more spectacular summits deeper into the mountains are even remotely snow-free.  I have even summited this mountain on Valentine's Day.

Another perk of this little peak is its proximity to my home.  The parking lot is a mere 44 km from my driveway, which allows Yam to be the perfect destination for a three-hour evening workout on a weekday.

I shamefully admit I have never actually done the entire ridge of this mountain.  The trail traverses the ridge from right to left (as viewed in the top photo on this page), and, I've been told, the ridge is the best part of this peak.  Problem is, I've never been able to find any willing participants to accompany me across this ridge.  And when I hike this trail alone and unfettered by reluctant beginners, I still have my dog to think of.  He doesn't like heights.

Yamnuska in early spring

And so, I've only ever hiked to the first summit.  I promise to more than make up for that cop-out with my other adventures in this narrative, so keep reading!

I first hiked this trail in 2002, and I estimate that I have summited this peak at least ten times in the decade since.  In 2010, I scrambled over Yam no fewer than three times; the first trek was at the end of March.  At the time of the writing of this chapter, it is mid-April, 2011, and the snow is flying out my living room window.  I fear it might be May before my boots carry me over this little gem again.

The Yamnuska parking lot is well marked just east of Seebe on the 1A Highway.  In fact, the entire trail is well-marked and really requires no written elaboration, save for a clarification of the only junction you will encounter on this trail.  Roughly 20 minutes into the trail you will reach a signed fork.  Unless you are Spider-Man, bear right.  The left fork leads to several popular pitches frequented by sport climbers.

View east towards Calgary from ridge

Most of the trail ascends relatively gently save for a few steep sections.  A significant portion of the first hour of trail winds its way through deciduous forest before breaking out of the trees and ascending along a south-facing grassy slope.  There are several places along this part of the path to stop for photos or to sit and enjoy the view.  You can literally see for dozens of miles to the west, south, and east.

As you stop to drink in the fresh air and views, keep in mind that you are in tick country.  It was here that I picked up two little passengers in March of 2010.  I didn't realize I was carrying hitch-hikers until I got all the way home, kicked off my boots, and reclined on the couch.  I absent-mindedly rubbed the back of my neck and felt a small bump.  At first I thought it was a scab, but within a fraction of a second I realized, with horror, what the alternative diagnosis was.  I grabbed it and flung it across the room, jumped off the couch, and shrieked.  With trepidation, I inched towards the dark spot on the floor, watching to see if it moved.  When it did, I shrieked again.

Narrow pseudo-chimney that must be negotiated

I carefully placed a cup over the beast, and then set a heavy book on top of the cup.  I made a beeline for the shower, stripped down, and showered hard for all I was worth.  I must have shampooed my hair two or three times.  Just as I was about to consider the job done and step out of the shower, I glanced down at my feet and saw a second tick flowing down the drain.  I jumped.  My hair got washed another two times and rinsed at least a dozen more before I finally got out of the shower, a shriveled prune.  Once dried and redressed, I ventured back to the living room to check on my little tick friend.  He was ambling around in circles inside the glass, evidently confused by his new surroundings.  The dilemma I faced now was what to do with the tick.

Now, I fully understand that most normal people would simply squish him or flush him down the toilet and be done with it.  Friends and family who know me well know one thing:  I cannot deliberately kill a bug.  And so I carefully packaged him up in a Ziploc bag and stored him in my bathroom drawer for a few days while I considered his fate. 

Happily through the chimney

I apologize in advance if this next paragraph is going to get me off on the wrong foot with my readers.  But I am who I am, and who I am is a bleeding heart for all creatures, great and small.  When the day came to say goodbye to my tick (who I'd lovingly come to know as Tickity-Boo), I tearfully drove him out into the country and let him go in some long tall grass.  Being relatively new to the area, I didn't realize that the new home I'd selected for my arthropod friend was a popular dog-walking area.  The following week I saw a client whose dog had picked up a tick.  As I gently removed the tick from the dog's face, I couldn't help but wonder if this was my old friend, Tickity.  When nobody was looking, I wrapped him up in a Kleenex and set him free in the grass behind the clinic.

Back to Yamnuska.  After your break at Tick Rock is over and you have thoroughly checked your body for passengers, proceed up the obvious trail and back into the trees.  You will lose your view for a while as you meander along the well-worn trail through the woods.  Within about 90 minutes from the trail head, you will get a good view of the east face of Yamnuska with its imposing crevice through which you must squeeze yourself before you can reach the summit.

Filthy boots = Happy Jody

Negotiating this crevice requires some skill and a degree of bravery.  The footing through this passageway is poor, and there are some sections that require you to pull your entire body weight up by your hands.  The area can be especially challenging for dogs, so do not bring any dogs whose body weight you cannot lift at least to your chest level.  Once through the crevice, you will skirt around the north face of Yamnuska and be granted great views of mountain ranges unseen from the highway.  The scrambling becomes slightly challenging here, especially for beginners.  If you are one, do not lose heart; you are almost there.  Persevere up the indistinct trail to the first summit, at which point you will have a spectacular view in almost all directions.  Use extreme caution as you approach the ledge; the drop to the ground below is about a thousand feet. 

Once you have stopped for another well-deserved break and have enjoyed your Craisins, descend the same way you came.  The descent is pleasantly easy, as gravity is on your side the entire way back to your vehicle. 

Takkakaw Falls to Twin Falls Loop - 18 km - July 1, 2009

If you live in Cochrane, Takkakaw Falls is a bit out of the way, as the trailhead begins in Yoho National Park near Field, B.C.  This trail is worth the drive, so do it!  Yoho is a Cree word meaning "Awesome!"  And awesome it is.

About 27 km west of Lake Louise on the TransCanada Highway, you will pass the Spiral Tunnels on your right (park your car at this touristy spot and take 20 minutes or so to read about this turn-of-the-century marvel of geophysics).  Once you've satisfied your thirst for knowledge of railroad history, hop back in your vehicle and head west down a very long steep descent into the riparian flats of Field.  Just before the townsite there will be a turnoff on your right for Takkakaw Falls.  Turn here and begin the long scenic 13 km drive up the mountainside to the parking lot at Takkakaw.  Inevitably you will see at least one rented RV struggling to negotiate the famous hairpin turn on this access road.  Try not to stare or laugh.  They obviously haven't read my guide.

Takkakaw Fals

Once you are at the top of the long and winding road, you will be faced with the challenge of locating a parking spot in the congested, madding crowd of cars, reminiscent of Cross Iron Mills Mall on Boxing Day.  Do the smart thing.  Don't try to find a parking spot close to the trailhead.  Not only are you wasting your time (the parking spot doesn't exist) but you're going to hike over 18 km anyway.  What's an extra few hundred yards?

You will immediately have phenomenal views of Takkakaw Falls (384 m with a 254 m free fall), the second-highest officially measured falls in Canada.  Takkakaw is a Cree word that loosely translates as "magnificent".  The falls were featured in the 1995 film Last of the Dogmen.

The fact that the massive cascade of Takkakaw Falls is right at the parking lot is both a blessing and a curse.  On the one hand, you do get instant gratification before you've spent more than single digit calories.  On the other hand, you need to pick your way through throngs of tourists, families with four generations crowded around picnic tables, running screaming kids, and barking dogs on extendable leashes tied around spruce trees.  If you're like me, you'll want to get on that trail as soon as possible, because, believe you me, 99% of this crowd isn't going past the outhouses.

Broad path through sparsely treed
area north of campground

Walk about 500 metres north past the parking lot and through a small campground to the signed trailhead.  Although a significant portion of this trail is forested, you will be afforded great views of several waterfalls.  Oddly, even over and above the spectacular waterfalls, I absolutely love the first part of this hike, which takes you across a dry and rocky, sparsely treed avalanche zone.  The views in this area are mesmerizing, and I could honestly spend all day here.

The trail is obvious, gentle, and inviting for the first kilometre or so.  A short way in, however, the trail becomes quite steep and rocky for a few hundred yards.  Mercifully, this climb is in the trees, and you will get shade.  There are signed detours to Angel's Staircase Falls, Point Lace Falls, and Laughing Falls.  A quasi-worthwhile 400 m detour is a short jaunt to Duchesnay Lake; a bowl in which I've never actually seen any water.  Apparently this pond is frequently dried up, leaving a wasteland of cracked clay.

Me and Fender, bouldering
across talus

Beyond Duchesnay Lake, you will reach a signed junction.  I have always borne left at this junction, in an effort to do most of the elevation gain on the first half of the trail and make for a last half that is mainly elevation loss.  A steep climb on switchbacks through dense forest rockets your elevation significantly within a  kilometre.  Don't lose heart during this gruelling slog; once complete, you will enjoy some fabulous bouldering across a massive slide.  There are great photo opportunities here, and the chance of seeing some playful characters in the pika and marmot families is in your favour.

You will eventually catch glimpses of Marple Lake, a reflective emerald pool that glistens and sparkles in the summer sun.  Once you've descended slightly to the level of this lake, you're basically there.  A few more yards and you'll be hearing the roar of Twin Falls.  Sadly, during my visit in 2009, one of the falls was inactive, giving a less than overwhelming overall effect.  Still, the falls is impressive, even if it has dwindled down to a 180 metre tall trickle.  Make your way to the base of the falls and enjoy the cooling spray as it showers you in glacial refreshment at your half-way point.

Me & Fender at base of
Twin Falls

There is a tea house at the base of the falls but it was closed when I was there on Canada Day.  Beware that the proprietor is not a fan of dogs off leash (nor should he be) so please respectfully leash your dogs while passing through this site, if not for the whole trip.

After the tea house you will begin to loop east and continue to lose elevation.  You will parallel the drainage creek for Twin Falls for a while, which affords you some more great photos of mini cascades.  The trail continues to be obvious until you reach a backcountry campsite.  You may see a junction at this camp; bear right (southeast).  This trail will eventually bear you back to the original signed junction, and from this point you are on familiar ground.

Hoary marmot
(Marmota monax)

As you return across that sparsely treed rocky area that I love so much, you will be granted more spectacular views of Takkakaw Falls that you missed on your way in because your back was to them.  There are frequently beautiful rainbows as the sunlight is refracted through the clouds of spray coming off the falls.  Photograph them!  You've earned these views with your 18 km trek; arguably more so than the hordes of tourists who have still not ventured past the outhouses.

Baldy Pass to Midnight Peak - 9 km - 905 m gain - easy to challenging

Common harebell
(Campanula rotundifolia)

This trip was a bit disappointing.  In hindsight, a better choice would have been Baldy Pass to Mt. Baldy (2,525 m).  Both trips share the same approach (Baldy Pass).  Midnight Peak (2,325 m) veers right at the pass while Mt. Baldy veers left.  Despite not being able to finish the trail, it did make for a nice after-work jaunt and I did get a few nice flower photos.

Western wood lily
(Lilium philadelphicum)

Park at the Baldy Pass trailhead on the west side of Highway 40, 10.3 km south of the TransCanada Highway.  Look both ways before scampering across the highway to the trailhead.  The narrow trail meanders south through dense forest before opening up onto a broader path that bears east.  The trail follows a dried up creekbed for a great portion of this voyage.  Unfortunately, I had banked on that creek to supply water for my thirsty dog.  It was on this trail that he learned to drink from a CamelBak.

The rugged and rooty trail gradually ascends eastward through forest, leaving the creekbed far below.  When you break out of the trees at 3.7 km, you have reached Baldy Pass.  Here there are pretty views of the valley to the northeast and several impressive peaks on the west side of Highway 40.  Stop for a quick bite to eat while pondering whether to bear left (Mt. Baldy) or right (Midnight Peak).  We made the wrong decision and headed for Midnight Peak (arguably because it had a cooler name).

Looking north to Mt. Baldy from the
approach to Midnight Peak

If you choose not to heed my warnings and would like to check out Midnight Peak for yourself, bear right (south) up an open ridge, ignoring the fork that veers off to the east.  The eastward fork looks tempting because it is an obvious, broad and comfortable path.  The trail winds down into the valley below and eventually curves north to the Lusk Creek Recreation Area.

Sasquatch country

If you're like us, you won't realize immediately that the eastward fork is the wrong path.  You'll follow it for several hundred yards before wondering why you're heading farther away from Midnight Peak.  Once you make your way back to the correct trail, continue heading generally south up the bare ridge, eventually coming across a large field of talus.  Looking up, I had vivid visions of bigfoot emerging from the stand of trees and hucking hundred pound boulders down the talus slope and burying us.  We'd never be found again, because we told people we were doing Mt. Baldy. 

Take note of the steepness of our
dangerous and slippery talus slope

Hasten across the bottom of the talus field to minimize the risk of sasquatch attack and then scamper up the right side of it.  Once at the top, you may or may not pick up the trail again as it disappears into the forest in a generally south direction.  There were times when we believed we were on the trail, but most times we were just looking for the trail. 

Brown-eyed Susan
(Gaillardia aristata)

I have found that the best way to search for an elusive trail is to have a team of two people:  one anchored on the last known segment of trail and another venturing forward in outwardly concentric swaths, of course staying within earshot of the anchorman.  If the scout picks up the trail, the anchorman joins her at the newly found trail, and the process continues.  It was in this way that we eventually found our way out of the stand of trees and onto the very steep boulder-covered north face of Midnight Peak. 

The trail guides describe how to summit this peak, but for the life of us we could not find a safe way up this bouldery slope.  Even without a dog, it would have been a brutally difficult challenge.  We decided that the safest way to live to hike again was to call it a day and turn back.  We retraced our steps, glancing regretfully at Mt. Baldy from the saddle of Baldy Pass before descending back into the trees.  I would never attempt Midnight Peak again, but Mt. Baldy is calling my name.

Northern sweetvetch
(Hedysarum boreale)