I’m driving through promotional photos and holiday brochure scenes to get to a possible bear encounter on the Ptarmigan Trail.
As recommended by Carol, who has lightened the load in her car by donating a few self-help books to me, out of the hundreds in her trunk.
On my way out of the hostel, Peter the fisherman with a feather in his cap mentions bear spray might be an idea.
And of course he’s quite right – it is an idea, and I confirm as much back to him.
He then freely admits that he’s never known anyone ever having to use it. So I decline the offer … I’ll take my chances.
Down the mainly deserted highway … to find that the large parking lot at the trail head is almost full, at 9am.
And I’m wondering … where the hell have all these people suddenly appeared from?
(Calgary, by all accounts)
Taking the loop trail up the mountain, in the shape of a ptarmigan. Possibly.
Where splashing around in waterfalls is not allowed, unless you’re approximately 20 years old.
Up here is the False Peak, keeping watch on the sunbathing animals anchored down on the boulders below.
This is not a loop thing, as I realise when I figure out I’ve somehow managed to wander off the circular trail.
Yet I’ve arrived in a natural amphitheatre, the sun slowly taking off over the layers of rock which are presented in diagonal angles, rising to jagged shards.
A hidden glacier is a glistening white conundrum up here.
Once I’ve decided to go no further, I’m barrelling down the mountain with the rest of Calgary, across Highway 40, to the boardwalk on the other side.
Where a group of elderly hikers are loudly discussing haemorrhoids and constipation, while trying to snap pictures of rare birds fluttering about in the shrubbery.
They’ll end up with piles of photos. Which I suppose is better than … nevermind.
Further along the highway, another full parking lot at the trail head for Elbow Lake – a cast of thousands.
Turquoise green waters, blocked off by picnickers lolling around in the shade of the trees.
A lone fisherman is up to his neck in it.
Halfway up the mountain is not halfway around the lake. I’m told where to go by a group of pensioners, as tends to be the way.
A hidden tent, no-one present. The bridge, the open path, the teenagers with the difficult flamingo (an inflatable).
I’m still trying to find a quiet spot to reflect how on earth I’ve ended up here and more importantly to eat lunch … all of which is difficult when there’s a steady stream of walkers and interrupters up here.
And folk plopping rocks into the calm waters, skimming pebbles, breaking the quiet of the day. Bloody kids.
On the comedown trail, Darren, born 1960 and – inevitably – from Calgary. That’s a deserted city today.
I have no idea why he told me he was born in 1960.
In the hot hot heat, he’s wearing jeans, a heavy-looking tracksuit top, and lumbering an enormous backpack.
I ask him how long he’s been camping for – “Just the night!”
Darren has strayed from his office desk, now back on track to his hometown, never camped before in his life. Maybe never again.
Coming up the other way, two guys struggling to ascend the steep path under the weight of their backpacks. The kids following them are left completely free in their playing and running.
Me, I’m running back up the highway, through ridiculous scenery usually only found in photoshopped promotional brochures.
And the local wildlife – even in the height of a hot summer – licking salt from off the baking median, reluctant to let me pass.
On the Skogan Pass trail, more warnings – nailed to telegraph poles.
No warnings for the damn kids and the damn dogs though – they’re everywhere … running up and down, hanging from trees, underwater, upstream, downstream, dangling from rockfaces, uncontainable.
I take in the Lower Falls, and then spy the sign to the Upper Falls, leading me astray at just the point I should be sat down with a cold beer.
More intrepidness in the high heat of a summer outdoors, searching for a break from the increasing temperatures and following the river to catch a glimpse of a rushing falls.
I could follow the pylons, or follow the damn dogs; instead I track the drizzle through the unlikeliest of forest openings.
A farm, a field, a bear warning – Kananaskis happenings, K-Country dealings.
Returning for a welcome tin of ale at the wilderness hostel, where the kitchen is a hive of activity, and over a pasta dinner I meet Jamie, the early doors cyclist who has seen it all, and managed it all – including this place.
Turns out he’s doing the same coast-to-coast trip across Canada as me, except swapping my lazy option of planes trains and automobiles for a goddamn racing bike.
When the noise becomes too much, I retreat to the reading room, where Peter the fisherman with a feather in his cap is holding station.
Talk is cheap in the lounge. And frequently repressed, judging by the atmosphere … which suits me.
Then Anita arrives. Then the French contingent – mother and daughter. Then Jamie, who has returned from an evening spent drinking at the resort hotel up around the mountain.
The story is a love-in, covered in French kisses; a joie de vivre in the Canadian Rockies.
I’ve joined the club, I can touch the sky.
An Outside World 