GDT 0: Prelude to Brutality
Pemberton to Waterton Lakes
I always forget the misery of the first week on trail. We've only been hiking for five days and I've already lost a toenail. But let's back up, before the road-walk heatwave, before the ridgetop thunder, before twelve hours of postholing for only seven miles. How did we get here again?
It started off innocently enough. Constantine and I departed from Pemberton on the morning of June 9th in Big Blue, with a full tank of gas and more than enough snacks for the three-day trip. Cruising up the 99 North, we were excited and optimistic, despite the persistent rain. Hiking season, baby! Here we go!
A scant half-hour later, we were stalled at the side of the road. The 99 North is a notoriously steep highway, and the long, winding climb at a 12% grade had stressed Blue's engine to the point of overheating. Pulled over with the hood popped, I bent over the engine to check for damage - the radiator was steaming and bubbling, but everything else looked fine. No blue smoke or smell of burning oil, and I'd just had the engine rebuilt, so…
“I think she just got really hot on the climb. I think it's okay? I hope it's okay.” What a way to start this adventure, I thought. We hadn't even been gone for an hour, and now we might not even get there! A small flutter of panic twisted in my gut, but I willed it away. It was fine. We would be fine.
I grabbed my back-up jug of drinking water from the cab and poured it slowly over the sizzling radiator, watching with some relief as the gusts of steam gradually gave way to a slight hiss, and then just occasional bubbling in the reservoir. Constantine made us bagel sandwiches and we sat, pensive, in the front seats as the temperature dial crept down. “I think we're okay. I'm going to try starting her up again, the next section isn't so steep.” The mechanic had fixed Big Blue's rattling exhaust leak, and I still hadn't gotten used to the new, quieter engine sound. Was she straining? Overheating again? Were we losing power, or was this uphill just steeper than I could see? I drove us slowly over the cresting hills to Lillooet in an attitude of anxiety, taking deep sniffing breaths through my nose to check for the scent of oil. Was the oil pressure dropping? It seemed to be okay. “We're okay. I think we're okay. I'll check the oil level at the next gas station, but I think we're okay.”
We were fine. After the moderate climb out of Lillooet, the van's temperature stayed firmly in the normal range, and the pressure gauge resumed its customary position as soon as we were back on level ground. I turned the music up and we cruised, nipping happily at the speed limit while the engine purred. We are Oreos and cheddar popcorn, and agreed that Canada has better varieties of chip flavours than the United States. Five hours in, Constantine took a nap in the passenger seat, and consequently slept through his first sighting of Tim Hortons.
The next day went smoothly too. After a peaceful night's sleep at a trailhead, we picked up the rental car in Prince George and shuttled over to the Walker Creek Forest Service Road, to the Northern terminus of the Great Divide. It was reportedly passable up to Bastille Creek, though after that you would need an ATV or some serious four-wheel drive. We bumped and scraped along the narrow track, making our way incrementally towards the trailhead until a massive sinkhole blocked our path. Clearly, we could go no farther, so we threw both cars in reverse and turned the van around at a flat spot. It was an hour's work to set up the chicken-wire porcupine fence around the van, and then we were off again in the rental car, back out the way we came.
We zipped down the highway in our muddy Honda Civic, pushing hard to make it in to Peter Lougheed Park before nightfall. We still didn't know if we'd have to stash food, or if the general store would be open despite the closure of National Parks. We'd have to camp somewhere tonight regardless, and it might as well be on trail. I didn't like our chances of finding a random camp after dark, so I took over navigation while Constantine sped us past the Alberta border. After a shouted conversation at the Jasper National Park gate, the attendant seemed to have the impression that we were headed down the 93, so we hurriedly forked over $20 for the privilege of driving the Icefields Parkway. I grumbled about the unnecessary cash grab all the way to Jasper, where we stopped for Constantine's first A&W burger and hit the road with our root beer and fries.
“This is the best game ever! Napkin, ketchup, oooh got a fry!” Constantine was reaching blindly into the fast food bag while driving. “Ahh! That was slimy! What the hell was - oh right, I put my tomato in there. Got a fry!”
“Watch the road, baby!” I hate being a passenger. “We saw four bears already, there's tons of wildlife around here. Watch the road! Speed limit's 70 again.”
It's been a long time since I took the Icefields Parkway, and soon I began to see the reason for the twenty dollar charge. The drive was staggeringly spectacular. All hope of arriving at Lougheed before dark was forgotten as the peaks began to glow. The sun was just starting its descent at 9pm, but we would not reach our goal before midnight at least. It didn't matter. We whooped and hollered with the joy of nature before us, exclaiming with each new glacial vista and frequently stopping to take in the astonishing view. “We get to walk here! We'll be right on that ridge!” “We're gonna be so cold!” “This is amazing! I'm definitely in the hiking mindset now.” We were elated, and as the alpenglow faded, we left the 93 and headed onward, jaded to the comparatively tame mountains that surrounded us near Banff.
“Oh shit, my brights were on the whole time.”
“Speed limit's 110, baby.”
“Ah woops. Brake check! I guess that's why he flashed his brights.”
“Are you getting tired? I can drive.”
“No, I can make it to Lougheed, it's like an hour and a half?”
“This rental has Quebec plates too, he must really think we're assholes.”
“Hon hon hon, ja parl fonsays.”
“Je parle français. Maybe we should stop in Canmore. We won't get to Lougheed before midnight, and I don't want to camp illegally in the park.”
Constantine ate yet another Oreo while I googled campgrounds near Canmore. Twenty minutes later, my small reserve of cash was $30 lighter, and we were snugly asleep in Constantine's orange tent.
We were up early. Too early, in my estimation. We piled our gear sloppily into the trunk and made the obligatory Timmy's run. The caffeine began to work its magic in my bloodstream as the cell signal waned, then blinked out all together when we made the turn onto the park access road. Two false turns later we arrived at the Boulton Creek Trading Post, resupply of our dreams. It was closed - obviously, because it was six-thirty in the morning. But there was a sign on the door warning those with symptoms not to enter, which did imply that people without symptoms probably could. We double checked the exterior outlets for power and tracked down a sign with opening hours in the corner of a window. We were in business! The food bags in our trunk were bound for the postal service, and we were bound for Calgary to return the rental car.
Somewhat unbelievably, they did not charge us extra for the paint damage on the Civic. Perhaps the mud was an adequate disguise. Shouldering our packs and trash bags full of food, we bade farewell to the brave little toaster and exited the parking lot on foot, much to the confusion of the rental employees. We must have been a sight in our mismatched hiking clothes, strolling to the post office with giant packs and smiles.
Then we waited. The only thing I hate more than being a passenger is waiting for a ride. Our trail angel, Melissa, was tied up with an appointment, and as the hours mounted my anxiety increased. We made trips back and forth to the only open cafe with a bathroom, sharing the park at a respectable social distance with the other homeless people of Calgary's downtown. At last, her SUV pulled up to a street nearby, and after several stressful phone calls, we were found. The ride down to Waterton was enlivened by the presence of her one-year-old daughter, who instantly pegged Constantine as a sucker and gave her best giggly coos. The moment his attention was diverted, she cried and fussed until he let her play with his bracelet again, or until her mom let her have a few Cheetos. He could not, however, be convinced to eat the soggy Cheetos that she gleefully offered him after licking off the cheese. “I haven't been on trail in a minute, Baby. I'm not hungry enough for that. It's your Cheeto.”
Three hours and one gas stop later, we arrived in town. Some confusion ensued, as Constantine had forgotten the precise name of the place we’d reserved and instead directed us to a non-existent “Alpine Hotel". Safely ensconced at the Aspen, we said goodbye to Melissa and her charming daughter and got down to the business of complaining about our pack loads. Five days of food, plus safety gear, and we were ready to go. Trail tomorrow. Trail, tomorrow!
Little did we know what the trail had in store.
Don't close your inbox! It's a Shiny Objects double-feature. I haven't had a moment to write in a bit, and you'll soon understand why. Another email is coming to you tonight, and we'll catch all the way up to Coleman. Talk to you very, very soon!
-Magpie