Banff, AB to Revelstoke, BC
I woke up deep in the mountains today, squished between two large, smelly men. Struggling to open the zipper, I threw open the tent fly and took a long breath of quiet, cool air. While getting to Banff from Jasper proved pretty easy and awe-inspiring, getting to this wooded site surrounded by dense, dark forest was not so easy.
After our spectacular day taking in the evian-bottle scenery along Highway 1, we pulled into the mountain village of Banff late in the afternoon. Smith went into the visitor centre to pick up our wilderness passes for the night while I stocked up on overnight essentials- sausage, bacon, buns, and cheese. Apparently the visitor guide wasn’t overly impressed with our last-minute scrambling to venture into the woods as out-of-towners. Smith reassured him with our experience camping in Northern Ontario, to which the guide says,
“Oh, well then. You’re more likely to come across bears over there than you are here!”
I guess we got lucky in Ontario.
Wilderness passes and meat in hand, we drove back north toward Jasper to take the Johnstone’s Creek Trail into the mountains. We had loosely discussed the ‘ideal’ time for us to be heading onto the trail, which we kept pushing back to make ourselves feel safer about the hike- and likely darkness- we had ahead of us. Just as we pull into the trailhead, we’re slowed behind lineups of cars lining the narrow sideroad. Heads were craned out and kids faces pressed against mini-van windows all toward the low-laying field next to us. We join the rubber neck club and catch our first black bear sighting. Too far to be photo worthy, and increasingly concerned about our dwindling daylight, we quickly move on.
While we dig out the luxuries and replace them with our bare necessities, I ask Smith if he was able to get a trail map to take with us.
“Nope,” says Smith. Storm then pipes up,
“So Smith, the trail starts just at the washrooms over there?”
“Hah... Ah, yeah, that’s the start,” says Smith, with a clear twinge of sarcasm. He didn’t have a map and clearly wasn’t sure.
“Looks good to me,” I say.
Loaded up with gear, we head onto the paved trail into Johnstone’s Canyon. Passing by the last of the day hikers, we didn’t stop too often to take in the 70-foot deep canyon as the sun was no longer on our side. With the late summer days working in our favour, we knew we’d get to the marked camp area, but that was assuming all went well- and that we were going the right way.
Smith was told the trail was just under 10km to get to Larry’s, the camp area we hoped to reach. He was also told it was pretty flat- a key factor in our decision to hit the trail at 7:30pm. If this trail was this visitor guide’s definition of “flat,” I can’t imagine what hilly or steep might look like.
Once we reached the top of the 4km canyon, the trail transitioned to a loose dirt path. We were encountering fewer and fewer visitors, and still hadn’t come across a single signpost reassuring us of our route. We paused to take in the last of the water views at the top of a 75 foot plunging waterfall. The canyon was narrow and in some places, featured flat, and for the adrenaline junkie, accessible rocks. Two such adrenaline junkies in their early twenties were perched at the very tip of the mid-river rocks, overlooking the 15m wide pool of white water far below. As one of the ‘dudes’ went to take a step back toward the main rock crest, he slipped and his body, from shoulders down, was fully submerged in the rushing water. Fortunately he had managed to grab onto a crevice in the base of the waterfall edge, and his buddy nearby helped pull him back up to ‘safe ground.’
As we continued on, it wasn’t until the 4.5km mark when we finally found a sign, which indirectly confirmed our direction thus far. We reached the “Ink Pots” at just under 6km and took a quick look around before pressing on. Spring fed water percolates up through the sand and gravel to form 5 blue-green pools known as “inkpots.” The swirling and bubbles can be seen at the bottom of the pools where the underground spring feeds the pool. They vary in colour as a result of the speeds at which they’re filled. The milky-green pools fill more slowly, as a result of the heavier suspension of fine materials as compared to the clear, deep-blue pools.
As we transitioned from mountainside hiking into the low valley, we could see the sun setting on the impressive mountains surrounding us. Nearly 2.5 hours from when we started, we finally reached the secluded camp area just under 10km into the bush. While that doesn’t sound overly impressive on a minutes/kilometre basis, the steep climbs and descents had us heaving, and swatting at skeeters, most of the way through.
We pitched our tents and headed over to the designated cooking area to whip up our sausages and vegetables over the open fire. Dark fell very quickly, and the temperature dropped to well below 10 degrees. We could hear the rushing river below us, and it wasn’t long before I was in full-on “bear aware” mode. While the boys were quick to poke fun at my paranoia, we all agreed that the key jingling, loud singing, and frequent forest scans were wise choices given that we were cooking dripping, juicy sausages over a relatively small fire in the pitch dark, deep in the Banff forest. We had played our cards perfectly to be the “unprepared, bear unaware hooligans” mauled by a family of grizzlies deep in the mountains.
While no such mauling happened and we did make it back to the tents a-okay, I was wired up and almost overly bear-aware. Without much to keep us warm, we all crammed into one tent to crash- as three smelly, smoky, and exhausted trekkers.
Having forgotten paper and lost the lighter the next morning, we felt like true ‘survivor people’ by successfully getting the flames going in the morning drizzle with nothing more than a good old-fashioned fire started from Grandpa Gibbs. The rain didn’t stick around for long, and we were packed up and back onto the trail by 11am. We greeted the plenty of cheery day-trekkers making the hike to the Ink Pots. On our way down as the sun poured into the mountain forest and our stiffness had somewhat worn off, Storm says,
“Well, we sure are bringing renewed meaning to the meaning of happy camper.”
One particular German woman in her late 50’s smiled when we said hello, and as I pass her, I look back. She had stopped dead in her tracks and was looking back down the trail toward Storm, who was just behind me. The look on her face was priceless- it was shock, mixed with confusion, topped off with a smirking grin.
Storm was dressed in short pink swim shorts he’d picked up at a Value Village in Sault Ste Marie, a drenched t-shirt tucked up into itself with his entire midsection bare, a large gym pack on his back and a school bag backpack strapped onto his front like a baby carrier. In each of his hands was a collapsible lawn chair swinging with each step.
“We were camping,” I say to the German woman.
“Ooooooh. I see!” she says with a beaming grin. I probably could have said we were part of the circus and she wouldn’t have replied any differently. She was laughing at Storm’s outfit- which camping hardly explained.
With less than 3km to go, we came across a British family taking in the view at a lookout point. As Storm and Smith came up behind me, one of the young boys, maybe 8 or 9 years old, whipped out a camera and started snapping pictures of us as we made our way past. Sure, maybe he thought some ‘dirty, smelly hikers’ might make for a good candid shot, but I think he was looking for digital memories of Storm’s shorts.
Jokes about the outfit aside, I must commend the boys on their gung-ho-ness for the bush camping adventure. While I made the trek with my ergonomic hiking pack, Smith was trudging with a canvas military pack strapped across his chest and Storm, well, you’ve heard what Storm was wearing. With the crowds growing as we descended into the canyon, we took one quick stop to take in the view, and to top up our water. The glacial water tasted spectacular- cold, smooth, with no distinct taste other than water in its purest form. During glacial recessions, the glacier scrapes at the mountain rock, creating what’s called “rock flour.” A the ice melts and begins its path down the mountain and mixes with the rock flour, the mixture is capable of absorbing all colours of light- except the turquoise blue colours we’ve seen throughout the parks.
We made it back to the car and back on the road by mid-afternoon, with plans to reward ourselves with another hot springs experience- Radium Hot Springs, about an hour south west of Banff. Stocking up on some more supplies for the evening, Storm and Smith made it into the Banff Safeway while I hit up the free wifi at Starbucks. While waiting in line with their bacon, chocolate chips, and granola bars, Storm tells me about this "goon" standing in front of them in line, sporting the cutoff tshirt, torn jeans, Saskatchewan Rough Ryders bandana, arms full of red bull, toilet paper, and all the fixins for s'mores. I laugh to myself... the other guy was the goon? Storm was tromping around the grocery store in pink shorts, a sweat-soaked tshirt, gashed legs, with arms full of bacon, chocolate chips, and a jumbo pack of chocolate caramel dipped 'granola bars.' And unshowered for over 3 days.
We crossed the Alberta/British Columbia border while traveling through Kootenay National Park en route to Radium, BC where we also had a roadside black bear sighting. The Radium Hot Springs were the perfect remedy for our aching muscles and doubled as a much-needed shower stop. With the final destination on the horizon and a Sunday deadline, we hit the road after Radium, through Golden and Glacier National Park and then onto Mount Revelstoke National Park where we got the extra hour we were needing. Passing through Glacier National Park early in the evening, the sky was dark and cloudy, with much darker, fiercer looking mountains at every curve of the highway. We found a small provincial park just outside of Revelstoke, BC sitting waters edge at Martha Creek, fed by Revelstoke Lake. We set camp and with tasty fire pizzas enjoying the shorts and t-shirt summer night air. Nothing beats the s’more and tetra-pack wine night cap.
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