25 July

The full Alpine experience – elevating myself in a tiny mountainside café, searching out truffles, bacon, buffalo and cake … as always.

I’m holding the fort, outside … because there’s no room inside. Crowds are difficult to escape from in this part of the Rockies.

Up the tunnel, the steady stream of tourists, jogging locals, mountain bikers and extreme sports enthusiasts.

There’s a green river down below, almost as green as the golf course next to it.

In that context, the grey mountains look ill, they look pissed, peaky; thunder in danger of being stolen from underneath them.

The muted shout-out to the climbers below: do not throw rocks. Amazing we have to be told.

1692M above sea level, on the Tunnel Mountain trail, an information board implores: “Life goes by at a frantic pace. Embrace this moment for yourself and share it with those around you. Savour this Rocky Mountain moment”.

Which is tricky when the damn crowds are practically nudging you along, and we’re all getting in each other’s way.

At a gap in the trees, a glimpse of a vertical cliff-face, and I sense a kind of movement as I glance over … on studying the scene, I count at least eight climbers ascending the precipice in the far distance.

While I’m stood there gawping, a couple from Bath join me. They’re over here to visit their semi-professional skiing son, a photogenic type whose face makes it onto everything – tickets, lift passes, billboards.

They didn’t know about the latter until they were on their way to downtown Banff from the airport, shocked to see their son grinning down at them from a giant roadside advert – offering them 20% off a multiday lift pass.

Further around the trail at another lookout, coachloads of people gazing down to the old gothic hotel surrounded by the old gothic peaks … a sinister-looking chateau in the shadow of Sulphur Mountain.

This is where the stinking rich stay.

In town, the Banff pedestrian crossing routine – waiting for ten minutes just to get to the other side of the road.

All I want is a frickin’ sandwich from the coffee bar, yet I spend a further half hour queuing up, only to leave the damn place with a giant sausage roll and a massive cookie.

Searching for a quiet and scenic place off the beaten track to enjoy lunch quickly becomes a futile exercise, despite the fact I couldn’t be in a more picturesque part of Canada.

I take the Bow Valley Parkway, the 1A, the road slightly less travelled.

Castle Mountain, a place where human beings go to sleep in the middle of the day, in their cars, snoring. I don’t think they know there’s a boardwalk and a scenic viewpoint over there.

Occasional glimpses through Bow Valley pop up through the trees, although they’re difficult to take in at 100kph.

Approaching Lake Louise is a layby taking me to a forest opening and a view of the Morant Curve of the trainline; no freight traffic or human traffic visible this afternoon.

The colours and the sights in front of me forcing a review and a reconsideration of beauty. I never thought it would involve a trainline, that’s for sure.

Five minutes later, I’m descending back to the main highway and into the chaos and contraflows of Lake Louise village.

I sneak around it all to get to my hostel, which provides some light relief from all the throng and noise of peak time Rocky life.

Everyone everywhere cannot explain anything to me.

But then I am asking difficult questions like, “Can I walk to Lake Louise?” (not recommended) and “Can I drive to Lake Louise?” (not recommended)

At the temporary visitor centre positioned on one side of the large parking lot, I persevere with my inquiries, to be advised that taking a shuttle bus down to the lakes is the best choice … but I might be waiting for an hour or two, possibly longer at peak-peak time.

Or, I can take my chances driving down there … if I’m prepared to go either before 7am or after 7pm.

Walking away dazed and baffled, but slightly less confused and with a remote version of a plan.

I walk backwards and forwards around the shopping mall, before buying a bran muffin and a six-pack of beer, which feels like the most reasonable thing to do, given the circumstances.

Contemplating the places that all of the cars and SUVs and trucks in the short-stay car park have come from.

Back in the hostel, eating a pasta dinner in a handsome log structure, glossing over it all with a local ale.

Shortly afterwards, I’m trying my luck and trying to follow the winding road to Lake Moraine … and surprised to find I’m waved through by the traffic marshal.

Then equally taken aback to find I have to queue for twenty minutes just to get into the parking lot.

I suspect the Group of Seven or Bob Ross never had to contend with parking restrictions and the whole of the damn world arriving en masse in the early evening.

A hair-raising panorama is the consolation for my wait.

I take the path up to the Rockpile, which somewhat unsurprisingly is a pile of rocks, perched on tonight by piles of people.

Like climbing Everest, is my thought.

Thankfully, there is a side path away from the hoi polloi, one that goes directly to Consolation Lake – who knew?

Very few, it turns out … although in fading light I figure I must be the last one down here tonight.

Through thick forest, the path meandering this way and that, eventually out to a spectacular opening.

Testing the waters by the lake – other people, other children.

When they depart the scene, I commence a rapid search for the perfect perch, alighting on that for a late evening IPA, attempting to memorise the view, or at least absorb the moment; a still moment.

I remain here for twenty joyful minutes, alone in the scenery.

Behind me, darkness in the trees, camouflaged bears, invisible wildlife.

At 9pm, a return hike back to where the masses are congregating.

Before long, crowds appear in view, crawling all over the Rockpile.

I join them, if only because where else am I going to go?

Lake Moraine sees it all, the seven peaks all lining up in spectacular order.

Down below, paddle boarders and rowing boats are slowly traversing the lake, making their way back to base camp.

I remain here until the sky turns the lights out, crowds now sparse.

The only people left are a few photographers with some serious gear, and romantic couples spending the occasion wrapped up in each other and in frequent passionate kisses, while smoking some serious gear.

Eventually, the few of us left here follow each other to town along the winding road, in the pitch black of the sleeping valley.