journey east: day 3

June 4, 2006


We've stopped for a moment near the summit of Paget Peak. There is an old fire lookout here that dates back to 1944. It is the oldest surviving fire lookout in the Rocky Mountain national parks.

My left knee is bothering me today and my body is clearly not in the same shape it used to be in, so the hike to this point has been a slow, plodding affair. Greg and Derek have continued on higher, presumably to reach the summit. 2,565 metres.

Despite overcast skies the view from the lookout is grand. To the west, looking back toward Field and the town's namesake mountain, is a range of mountains hemmed in by clouds. A dark ceiling for a magnificent view. To the east is Alberta and the scars of the Lake Louise ski area are visible on the side of a mountain. Beyond, the beginning of the Front Ranges, starting with the Skoki Valley. We're still unsure about the prospect of getting into the valley, but so far the news isn't good. There's a lot of snow on the ground and we just don't have the right equipment.

In front of me, to the south, beyond the abyss formed by the Kicking Horse Pass, stand the mountains that guide Cataract Brook on its short journey down from Lake O'Hara. Lake O'Hara is perhaps the loveliest camping and hiking area in all of Yoho.

Six or seven hours have passed since arriving at Paget Peak. We hiked most of the way back down and then humped over to Sherbrooke Lake. Along the way we came across some bear scat. We stopped for a moment. It was deposited right in the middle of the trail. Was this lump of seed speckled scat a warning? We looked at the scat. We looked at each other. We looked at the scat some more, scanning for signs of freshness, like steam wafting off it. None were willing to stick a finger in it to check for warmth.

I took plenty of photos today. Flowers, lichen, Greg and Derek, mountains, lakes, etc. Mountain Lilies, as I learned they are called today, are these delicate, sad, yellow flowers that grow in abundance on Paget Peak. Barely the width of a two-dollar coin Mountain Lilies peppered the side of the mountain, growing thicker as we climbed higher. Shortly after we arrived at the fire lookout a man came down from the mountain who had been taking photos of the flowers. He was pretty excited. He said this was supposed to be the best spot in the Rockies to take photos of Mountain Lilies.

Back at camp a fire burns and the meager light left to write by is quickly fading to non-existent. Derek is staring submissively at the fire, for the time being given in to a primal connection with flame.

Maybe later we'll play Yahtzee.

On the way back to camp we stopped at the Yoho Brothers Trading Post. Greg commented that the girl working there probably muttered something nasty under her breath: great, here come these dirty losers again. I left with Coffee, orange juice and a bag of Doritos.


mmmmm, what a yummy lifestyle we maintain.

Aside from dozens of trains going through town every day, and Yoho Brothers, what excuse for existence does Field have? Why is it here and what is the lifestyle of those who live here? Are they Fielders? Fieldites? Fieldonians? I should look into it.

Open for discussion today: Blumkin and felching- you don't want to know details; the naming of mountains - and all the fighting that accompanies the activity, not to mention the rabid consulting of the map to see who got the name right; driving habits; GT talked about working jobs to the limit , all consuming and some of the requisite familial battles that went with the pace; Derek explained forensic findings from the battle of Little Big Horn - Custer's last stand didn't happen quite the way the conventional lore would have us believe.

Dusk has long passed into deep night. I'm watching over the last embers of the fire and again, echoing across the valley, the lonesome sound of locomotives hauling tonnes of rolling stock and goods eastward.

Gentle drops of rain are falling, thus the change in pen. My other pen, a uni-ball vision, doesn't stand up well to rain. The ink runs. That's a hard lesson I learned at the Eagleridge Bluffs protest last week as evidenced by the blurred ( and apparently incorrect) cut line written at the back of this book.

Greg and Derek went to bed a while ago. I done' ever like to see a day end, especially a day spent in the mountains. Mountains are a basic presence in my life. My perception of the world, at a very basic level, is similar to my perception of mountains. Mountains are indelibly rooted in time. When looking at the striated layers of stone that make each mountain distinct in shape and colour, the only possible explanation for their existence is that of patient abiding. How can stone be anything but patient? How can I?

When I look at a mountain I want to be on that mountain. I am not driven by any urge of conquest or achievement. I just want to see what the mountain sees. Each peak's view is different. Skree slopes battle with fledgling forests and trees creating grey and green skirts, each mountain's garb slightly different. From top to bottom, mountains feed my curiosity and I know I'll be back one day to climb them some more.

It was nice to relax at the Paget Peak fire lookout. Sure, I missed the grand view from the summit, an opportunity rarely passed up, but I just wasn't feeling a push to the top in me that day. Derek and Greg also had a rest when they returned to the shelter. It gave a great opportunity to capture the job Greg did on his glasses.



"you should see the other guy."