I'm not a mountain climber, but I've got a bottle of water, a topographic map, and two good legs. What more does one need for a little mountain trek? Right now I'm ascending Whistlers Mountain not on foot, but in the comfort of a little red cablecar. Yesterday I was the driver of the cable car. It's my job. Today's my day off, and I decided I'd take a ride up and explore around up there.  Click on the picture of the cablecar to read a little bit more about how I got here.

It had been about a month now since I was hired at the Tramway. The initial excitement of going up and down the mountain in the little red box had wore off, and I was now aspiring to greater adventures on this mountain. During coffee breaks between cablecar runs I had often looked up to Indian Ridge, high above everything else, and imagined myself wandering along this mountain's spine. What's on the other side? That's always been my relationship with the mountains... I'm always asking myself "What's on the other side?"
 
 

"Welcome to the Jasper Tramway," says the car operator as our little red box drifts silently above the trees. The car operator names off the rivers, lakes, and mountains visible from the windows. Maligne Range, Athabasca River, Colin Range, Roche Bonhomme, Pyramid Mountain, the Yellowhead Range. I can see them all with my eyes closed, having made the same speech hundreds of times.

Five minutes later and one kilometer higher, the car slowly docks into the upper terminal, a small, lonesome building perched near the top of the mountain. The metal door slides open noisily and I walk out onto a wooden deck, with the cool mountain breeze blowing across my face. My excitement begins to build when I find myself under the power of my own feet. I never liked guided tours much; The excitement of exploring is to discover a place myself, not have someone show me the way.

I begin to walk up the small, steep, rocky trail that leads up the peak of Whistlers Mountain. Tourists speaking every language pass me in both directions. This mountain is a tourist trap, for sure. The tourists walk the short path the to the peak, but none come with the time or desire to learn what's beyond Indian Ridge.

It's around noon. Thankfully, I'm starting to get away from the excessive tourist jabber. I've passed the peak, and I'm walking down now into a sloping mossy meadow. Green moss and orange lichen constitute the majority of the vegetation here. Here and there I see a Ptarmigan, a black and white spotted bird that camouflages itself well against the rocks and whatever patches of snow have survived the summer's sun to this July day. Hoary marmots are also known to live up here on the moss, but I haven't seen one.

<-- Ptarmigans on Whistlers Mountain

Moving down into the meadow, everything gets still and quiet. There are no more voices, and the meadow is sheltered from wind. I walk happily, eager to reach Indian Ridge, and full of energy. Past the meadow, I begin to climb a hill. The face of the hill is made up of thousands of fragments of thin slate-like rock, called scree in mountain climbing terminology. Scree is difficult to walk on because the tiny pieces of rock are always sliding away beneath your feet. I stop to rest, picking up broken pieces of rock and finding neighbors that fit together. It's nature's version of a jigsaw puzzle. The whole mountain is one giant pile of puzzle pieces, but I leave that puzzle for another day and continue up the hill.

Up the hill a ways I am back on more solid footing. I begin climbing up gigantic boulders and Indian Ridge is now in view above me. As I ascend, I stop to throw a heavy cube-shaped rock down the hill, and watch it roll and bounce like a rubber ball, disappearing out of sight. I can still hear it bouncing endlessly long after it is gone from sight. I never knew rock could bounce that high. The climb is tiring and there are many obstacles to avoid. Deep patches of snow block the way, and some rocks of the rocks are just too high to climb.

I think I'm almost up to Indian Ridge now. Two more great boulders to climb over. Panting, I struggle to lift myself above the rock. I discover that the personality of this place is a deceptive one when I find another staircase of brown rocks looming above me for another 50 feet. It's funny (and disconcerting) when you think you've almost reached your goal and you are really nowhere close. The rocks deceive me a few times. I climb and climb some more. Now I'm definitely on some kind of ridge. It goes down on my left, down on my right, and just another short staircase of boulders ahead. The wind is cold and ruffles my hair as I finally arrive at the top of Indian Ridge. A breeze whips by and I dig through my knapsack for a sweatshirt.

Terminal Mountain -->

Indian Ridge fills me with the magnificent awe of being in the Rocky Mountains. I can see for miles here but there isn't a person to be seen. There is a giant bowl to my right. The left side is a gentler slope into a meadow with a mighty creek raging through it. The backdrop of this scene is the jagged Trident range. The most notable mountain from this vantage is the rust-colored Terminal Mountain, a steep, jagged peak with sharp teeth that pierce the sky, and white ribbons of snow sweeping the front face. A giant rock chute descends down to the foot of the mountain, where a small lake hides, tucked away. As a cloud clears, the sun's rays illuminate a small lake in bright blue. The lake is small enough that I didn't even notice it on the map. Its bright and mysterious beauty draws me in. I wonder if I have enough time to make it to the lake and back. It's three o'clock. The lake doesn't look far. I can make it down there in an hour.

I find the magnetism of this lake impossible to resist, and bound downhill into the meadow. It's difficult to walk straight down the steep terrain, so I wind back and forth along the mossy terrain. After walking for an hour or so, I get to the bottom of the meadow and come to a creek blocking my path. The creek rages through a small canyon. It might be dangerous to climb down there, so I follow the creek until I find a suitable crossing, and then take of my boots to walk through. The water is fresh snow melt, and makes the feet numb.

On the other side of the creek I'm in a large boulder field, at the foot of Terminal Mountain. I'm near the lake, but I'll have to walk over hundreds of large boulders to get there. The boulders must have all at one time or another come tumbling down the gigantic chute on the face of the mountain. Thinking back to the rock that I bounced down the hill, I imagine the great spectacle of seeing a boulder the size of a man tumbling thousands of feet from above. It would be amazing, as long as I wasn't in its path of destruction. It would have to travel for a mile before it even slowed down. After having that thought, I look around and realize that the field of boulders stretches for about a mile around the base of the mountain.

<-- Terminal Lake (click on this picture to read my thoughts about terminal lake)

I arrive at the lake. Its waters are a perfect deep blue, and clear enough to see right through to the bottom. Nothing grows down there. I guess this lake is too cold for anything to grow. I refresh myself by splashing the water in my face, and sit on an orange boulder for a while, admiring the view and gobbling up a peanut butter sandwich. It is five o'clock.

I start to think about time now. I've been out for five hours now, so I better hurry to get back to the tram if I'm going to go back that way. I pull out the map and consider alternatives. The creek I crossed over earlier, Whistlers Creek, leads from this lake downhill all the way to the highway. I use the width of my thumb to count the distance on the map. Seven kilometers to the highway, all downhill. Six kilometers back to the upper terminal, half of it uphill. I opt for the downhill route to the highway.

I find the creek and begin walking along its right side, but then find a good place to cross over to the left bank. The first kilometer is easy walking. During the second kilometer I begin to descend below the tree line, and I have to dodge the occasional tree, but I'm still moving along just fine. During the third kilometer my surroundings start looking a lot more like a forest. Trees get in my way, and occasionally an entire row of trees completely blocks the path, forcing me to make a wide arc or find a way to beat through the bush. The sound of the creek off to my right is comforting. I can't get lost if I'm beside the creek.

The trees are really getting in my way now. I have a logical thought: trees need water to grow, therefore they will grow thicker near the creek. I decide to keep some more distance between myself and the creek and I veer off to the left. I'm deep in the forest, green all around me, grey above me. The tributaries of Whistlers Creek trickle down the mountainside, and I have to jump over a little stream every few minutes.

The forest is dense. To the left I can see a large area that looks like a clearing. I head towards there, thinking I might make better time if I can get out of the bush. It's six o'clock. A few minutes later I find myself walking knee-deep in a tangled mess of dead trees. Charred limbs litter the ground, stacked two feet high on top of each other. This "clearing" turns out to be an area that had been burned to the ground, site of some minor forest fire. The trees are still here, except they're all lying on the ground rather than standing up. Every step is an effort of balance as I jump from log to log, but I know I'm getting nowhere fast like this. I'm starting to wish I had never gotten into this mess.

It's a relief when I finally get back onto solid ground, but I'm still deep in the forest and far from nowhere. The forest closes me in, making me feel almost claustrophobic, especially with the way the grey ceiling of clouds hovers low above the treetops. I'm really going to have to do some serious walking if I want to get out of here before darkness falls. Luckily time is on my side: at this time of year it's not dark until almost midnight. I waste no time resting.

Walking in the forest I come across occasional paths and wonder if they are from another person, but it's not likely. This wilderness is a big place, and furthermore, I realize there is no obvious intelligence behind these paths. They all come to a dead end at a bush or a stream after going fifty meters or so. They must be tracks that the animals use. It makes me a little nervous knowing I might be treading on the territory of a jealous elk, or worse, a nervous grizzly. This is bear country.

With this thought in mind, I try to make noise while I walk. I call out phrases like "WHOO-OO! COMING THROUGH! YOU BETTER WATCH OUT, BEARS!" That ought to scare them off. The sound of my voice makes me feel less alone.   Click on the picture of the bear to read some of my lonely thoughts.

The hours tick by like minutes, and every time I look at my watch another one is past. I walk like a madman but it doesn't seem like I'm getting anywhere. It never does when you're deep in the woods. 7 o'clock... 8 o'clock... 9 o'clock. Eventually my calls turn into something like "CAN ANYBODY HEAR MY OUT THERE?" I know that it's a useless question. I just wish I were back in Jasper with my girlfriend Christy. I'm thinking about her warm arms, her soft bed. She must be worried about me. I've been gone for too long. I wish there was some way to tell her I'm alright. I wish none of this ever happened. Is this real, or just a bad dream? No, it must be real; I've never had a dream this bad.

Rain begins to fall softly. It's not the rain that gets me wet, but eventually I become soaked from brushing up against wet plants, or from pushing small trees aside and having them shake their wet leaves over my head. My boots become thoroughly soaked from stepping through small streams. At first I was jumping over the streams or finding a way around them, but now I'm starting to realize that I can't let anything slow me down. I repeat that phrase to myself over and over: "Don't let anything slow you down." I teach myself that when I get caught at a dead end, there isn't time to stop and consider the alternatives. I Just turn around and find the first way out.

I've long since lost the Whistlers Creek, abandoning my original plan of following it to the highway. My new plan is to round the mountain and join up with the winding road that leads to the Tramway. Every once in a while I can see the glittering lights of the town below. It seems so close - taunting me, like a sick joke. Who knows how much further it really is?

The ground is slick beneath my weary feet. My legs have the consistency of Jell-O. Every hundred paces I stumble on roots and fall, or slide on a log and end up on the ground. There's nothing to do but tell myself "Don't let anything slow you down," and lift my body up from the dirt. The survival instinct kicks in. Adrenaline is only thing left.

Coming across one clearing I see a deer and two fawn crossing an animal path. The two fawn run ahead, but the mother stops to stare me down for a minute. She runs off to join her young. I've quickened my pace. 11 O'clock. There's not much sunlight left. I'm practically running through the woods. They aren't as dense now. It's a relief to be able to move easier.

What's that shape over there? It's a white cylinder. Is it a fuel tank of some kind? I must be close to civilization! Excitedly, I run towards the shape. It's just another tree! I must be hallucinating. Beginning to question my sanity, I press on. On several occasions I think I see a road in the distance, but it's just my overactive imagination.

Now it's almost completely dark. If it weren't for the moonlight I'd be ramming into trees blindly. I start to think there's a faint glow ahead, but after imagining the fuel tank I'm not ready to trust myself. As I'm winding downhill through the trees I am startled by the sight of a pair of red lights crossing in front of me. A road! It was so dark I didn't even see it. My heart rises with excitement. I run towards the glowing orange light ahead of me. A campfire!

Crossing the road I make out a couple of shadowy figures around the fire.

"Hello!" I say, "May I warm myself by your fire? I've been lost on the mountain!"

It must have taken them a minute to digest that phrase, but then they invite me to join them, looking concerned. They are a middle aged couple from Ontario on holidays with their children. The man gives me dry clothes and something to drink. The warmth of the fire fills my body with comfort, and fills my mind with a great feeling of relief. I retire in a lawn chair. I'm glad to see people again.  Click on the picture of Jasper below to read my thoughts on returning to civilization.