journey east: day 4

I wrote most of my journal entries at the end of the day. Some days, as was the case with my photography, I was fairly sparse in my thoughts and recollections. On other occasions, like this day, I had plenty to say and at times was perhaps a little too heavy with details. This day was one of those days. Sure, there are memorable moments recorded here, but there is also plenty of the mundane. It strikes me that the combination of photos and words work well together to keep me refreshed of what was memorable for the day. They augment each other, and the photos especially trigger memories of the original condition of the moment.

June 5, 2006

Rain is falling. We tried to put up with it at the campsite for awhile but finally relented. We are now comfortably ensconced in a shelter with a fire going in the stove and are playing Yahtzee. We are into our fourth game and already a couple of Yahtzees have been rolled. "Yahtzee!"

Greg has apparently rejected Blue Highways and in turn is reading a book Derek brought: Journal of the Dead, by Jason Kersten. Apparently it starts with a murder. In the time it has taken to play three and a half games Greg has read 72 pages. Just moments ago he declared, "I'm hooked,"and promptly buried his face once again in the book.

Greg is a reading prodigy (it sounds like I'm talking about a three year old.) He fills a lot of his down time with reading. The Journal of the Dead will be done by tomorrow and he'll want more. I'll serve up Cloud Atlas and A Year in the Merde to him. One will surely grab his attention. He reads in the morning between waking and hiking. As soon as we return from a hike he picks up a book and rarely puts it down until he goes to bed. It is quite remarkable actually. Given the opportunity, I drink scotch and beer, and smoke cigarettes and pot. Greg reads. That is his vice, and cigarettes, but we won't get into that.

We climbed a long straight ridge today that climbed the spine of a timber draped furrow of stone. Onward and upward we went. The nature of the landscape changed step by step. The views expanded as we climbed, but the details got lost in the scale of the landscape as we neared the top.

Once again there were plenty of flowers. No mountain lilies though. There were daisy like flowers and wonderful purple flowers whose name I should know but don't. I had seen them at Paget Peak, but not nearly as plentiful.


someday I'll learn the name of this flower.

So much opportunity to take photos. I took wide-angle shots of mountain ranges flanking long green valleys, and spent plenty of time at ground level taking photos of flowers. And I took photos of Derek and Greg and the land we hiked in, and what a wonder it was to wander the area.

There were times though, as we crept our way to the top, that tedium led me to count my paces, 500 at a time. Gotta love mental dreariness while surrounded by nature. Hiking is a time for thinking and a litany of thoughts always course through my mind, just sometimes these thoughts are more riveting than others. Books aimed at enlightening foolhardy adventurers willing to risk a journey into the outdoors, like strolling along the paved paths of Lake Louise, advise lots of noise making. They suggest talking so the bears hear you coming. Right. Does this also work for hungry cougars? Why do I want to tell predators were I am? Besides, people can't sustain continuous conversation for five-hour periods. We hike in silence for long stretches. Our thin line of three hikers gets drawn out, but rarely out of earshot.

In the Guide to the Rocky Mountain Parks are instructions on what to do in a bear encounter. What you do depends on, according to the guide, what mood the bear is in. Is it defensive? Protective? How am I supposed to know? It's a bear. I always know where my bear spray is. I toy with the trigger as I walk. I feel it. I know there will only be bad with it in the end. More likely than not Greg or Derek or both will stumble bleary eyed from the woods as a result of an itchy trigger finger. And to think we each have a can of it. Now that I think about it I sort of feel sorry for the bear that runs afoul of us. And I guess it's three times as likely there will be some sort of horrible eye-watering accident.

Our trip up Mt. Hunter was on our sunniest day to date. One of the things I like about hiking in the mountains, especially at higher elevations, is the sparseness of the forest canopy. Times in the directness of hot summer sun are tempered with moments of relief in the shade. It makes for a pleasant hike. Mt. Hunter was one of those hikes. And though it wasn't the longest hike we've done, it was notable for its steady, plodding progress into the sky.

Mt. Hunter is tucked just inside the western boundary of Yoho National Park. Midway along the ridge to its summit is a 10 metre tall fire tower. A ladder leading up to the cabin at the top of the tower beckons to be climbed. For added enticement, like a lure for the weak, a crude hand-crafted log ladder was propped in the two metre gap between the ground and the bottom rung of the steel tower's ladder. How could I not climb it? There was a pretty good wind blowing and the steel was cold. At the top of the ladder a hatch was pushed to the side, it's latch smashed. The paneless windows were great for photos and lousy for instilling any sense of security, not to mention, again, the gaping hole in the middle of the three by three metre octagonal floor.


view from the fire tower.

But the view. 360 degrees off mountains and valleys, and the long ridge we were travelling. Our ultimate destination loomed to the north, set atop a sheer cliff at least 100 metres high. In the valley below large swaths of the forest were streaked red, presumably the result of a pine beetle infestation. As sad as the effect the Mountain Pine Beetle has had on B.C.'s forest industry, the landscape in this area is now offered with colours as vibrant and varied as those found in the fall in the maritimes. Just trying to make some lemonade.

Near the base of the fire tower was a cabin with a deck where we lounged about in the sun for awhile. Then we headed off on the last push to the top. 2,600 metres from one fire lookout to the next. It was more of the same to follow. Ever expansive vistas, more flowers, and lots of trees, though the type was different. The grasses near the bottom of the mountain gave way to yew-like shrubs. Each footstep was a plodding footstep, higher up trailing switchbacks until the top was reached. we probably could have gone higher, but the trail ended and there didn't seem much to go to, other than the top, wherever that was. From the second lookout there wasn't a visible peak.

There was a small cabin at the second lookout and three concrete pilings off to the side. I wonder what used to be mounted there. A tree grew where it looked like a fourth piling should have been to complete a square. Again, we lounged on the deck of the cabin. It was the third time in two days a cabin had served such a useful purpose. The park's vigilance for forest fires used to be pretty intense. It probably still is, but human eyes on every peak aren't needed anymore. It's nice the cabins have been repurposed. No fees, no service.

The rests are always nice. We stopped three times along the way to ease our feet and fill our bellies with food and water. Nothing is more pleasant than sitting on a rock, while being washed over by a gentle warm breeze. And the absence of sounds of human activity, like cars and trucks and radios and machinery is a well earned moment of bliss.

What took three hours to climb we descended in 45 minutes. Not far from the top we came across three mountain bikers and a dog headed to the top. One of the girls hushed at us not to tell. I thought she meant the dog of its leash. She was more concerned about mountain biking in a no mountain biking zone. Shame on them. Whatever, it didn't seem like there were hordes of mountain bikers headed for Mt. Hunter. The trail remained in good condition. I was surprised they didn't pass us on the way down.

At the bottom, we checked for flattened coins. A few hundred metres from the trailhead the path crosses train tracks. I left a looney, Greg left a dime and a quarter (not sure how he'll equitably split them with Ben and Sam,) and Derek left three pennies all in a row. All six coins were sufficiently flat and two of Derek's pennies were fused together.


Greg straddles the rail where he's left his coins. Derek wonders how he could cause a train wreck. John takes the picture.