Hikertracks

Outdoor adventures with storyteller, artist and short distance thruhiker Rosanna P. Brost, aka 'Tracks.'

[hikertracks]

A Pilgrimage to the Northern Terminus

Usually, you only see visit this place after you’ve hiked an extremely long way.

My adventure was flawed long before I reached the trailhead. Its first setback came before I ever left home, when I ridiculously planned to drive all the way to the park from my hometown then hike all in the same day. This plan would not have been a bad plan, except I also planned to leave following a two hour physiotherapy appointment (to correct the whiplash which I was still healing from) and return to my homeland the very next day, giving me very little time to actually enjoy my destination, a thought which would plague me the entire trip. 

The day that my foray began, I was also incredibly silly, electing to stop for doughnuts (in my defense, they were extremely delicious ones from a very good local place,) then the bookstore, then after I had finally gotten my butt in gear, I stopped at another park on the way to my destination where I learned that it actually takes quite a long time to eat pitted olives.

Kentucky-Alleyne Provincial Park, which happens to be one of the most beautiful non-mountainous places in the interior of southern British Columbia. It sports two magnificent gem-like lakes and it’s a spectacular stopover on the way to more exciting places like E.C. Manning Provincial Park and the coast (if you’re coming from the east.)

Thus, it was quite late by the time that I actually arrived in E.C. Manning Provincial Park, but in this case, the seasons were with me - being July, the sun was still standing tall in the heavens. I got out of my new car, which had proven itself worthy of the memory of my previous on the drive there, rummaged through my pack, and immediately discovered that I would learn a little more about thru-hiking on this trip than I had bargained for.

I had forgotten a fuel canister.

Needing hot water in order to eat my dinner of Mountain House Macaroni and Cheese Product (the name is disgusting but the flavour is whoa,) I then went in a vain search for some, eventually giving up after an hour. Returning to the trailhead, I ditched my trusty Pocket Rocket and my beloved dinner into the backseat of my car, then set forth down the trail - the northernmost end of what is undeniably one of the most awesome trails in the world. the 4,265 kilometre (2,650 mile) long Pacific Crest Trail, or PCT.

If you haven’t figured out just with that sentence, well, when it comes to the PCT, I’m a big fan - so stepping onto any part of it, no matter how geographically minute, was a huge deal, even if that piece of PCT was very accessibly only four hours from where I live. Standing in front of the trailhead sign, which whispered only an impression of what could come gave me the shivers, and I gladly started down the trail, clad in improved gear from what I had taken on my recent thru-hike of the West Highland Way. This trip was a test - not just of my new backpack, an Osprey Eja 58, but of me - I had to know how healed I was, and whether my damaged neck could handle backpacking again. 

The somewhat unremarkable northern start to a trail which literally crosses a continent.

Just in case you wondered what this puny section of this epic looks like.

Despite the hour - five o’clock by the time I set out - the sun was still high when I left the trail, hiking along the edge of the Skagit River. The trail soon took me away from there, climbing up in lazy switchbacks which would have felt gentle, if not for the veritable horde of mosquitoes who accompanied me. Having stupidly elected to disdain insect repellent, (a decision I had previously lamented as dumb on the West Highland Way thanks to Scotland’s flourishing tick population,) I was forced to hike faster than my nippy friends could fly. This wasn’t hard, except for the fact that the wide trail was taking me very steadily uphill. My breaks consisted of brief pauses to get my heart rate down, then I would charge off again, fleeing my humming insect companions. 

A quick view of beautiful mountains peeking through the trees before fleeing Manning’s mosquitoes again.

Most of my views looked like this. Out of sight is the contingent of insects hovering around me.

Besieged by hot sun yet protected from its direct glare, I made my second most spectacular oops of the trip - I took my pink hat off. Then, possibly because of the healthy mosquito population pursuing me, I neglected to pause to put it away. This probably would not have been a problem for many people, but I happen to have a bizarre habit of forgetting when I am holding things. Normally, this isn’t at all an issue - normally, I don’t drop what I am holding, and I continue to aimlessly hold whatever is clutched in my hands. On that day, however, my hands apparently forgot to do what they were doing too, and I didn’t discover this fact until several kilometres had passed. The worst part was the flicker of forewarning of this happening which I had which I ignored - some part of me momentarily recognized that if I didn’t put my hat away, I’d lose it, but I was a ninny and ignored that cleverness. 

Me with my beloved pink Outdoor Research Sun Runner Hat in Garibaldi Provincial Park in August 2017. RIP, pink hat, hopefully purple hat will live up to your memory. Photo taken by my dad. (Black Tusk is in the background. I will return someday, Black Tusk, I swear it!)

The junction between a wide trail (practically a road,) and a much more fun thin winding one! (Which just happens to lead all the way to Mexico.)

Triumphantly reaching the junction of the Pacific Crest Trail and the markedly more popular looking Windy Joe Trail (which was at least a metre wide compared to the thin line of the PCT,) I noted that the sun was still in my favour. Knowing that I was close to camp, I decided to ascend Windy Joe and continued up the switchbacks, which were definitely somewhat steeper than the ones on the horse-friendly PCT (although not by much.) My mosquito friends accompanied me, taking care that my breaks were never longer than a few huffs (I found vindictive pleasure in an exposed outcropping of rocks which gave me some beautiful views where the wind gave them trouble,) and I plugged my way up to the top, where an old fire lookout still stands proud, if empty. Immediately taking advantage of its mosquito-proof properties, I went inside the building and finally took a well-earned break, enjoying the fine view of Manning which was presented.

What ho! Views! And wind!

Temporary relief from my parasitic winged companions.

Muahahaha, just try and bite me through glass, little bugs, just tryyyy.

I was apparently so desperate to escape the mosquitoes that I didn’t photograph my sanctuary until I stepped outside again.

Recuperated from the harassment of my insect friends and with my belly full of Clif Bar, I slung my pack back on then stepped outside, where the winged heathens had lain in wait for me. Giving the horrid things a sly look, I bolted from the stony top of the mountain - the mosquitoes may have had an edge on me going uphill, but going down I hike like a runaway freight train. Gravity on my side, I all but galloped back to the trail junction and with a much reduced insect pursuit, I continued onto the PCT, dropping from the little pass where the junction was into the deeper forest. The trail led me through a few twists and turns before finally dropping down to camp - the final camp on this continent-traversing epic of a track. Glad to be home, I happily noted that PCT Camp sported a bear locker (I wouldn’t have to try my skills at a bear hang,) and a better water source than the trickle which I had seen hiking in. 

Camp, sweet, camp in the fading light of the day.

All alone, I set up camp, stuffed bars into my mouth (while dearly missing the before-mentioned Macaroni and Cheese Product,) and went to bed, all the while slightly freaked out, because while there’s no bears in Scotland, I was in British Columbia, where every step you take is in bear country. This being a stupid thing to panic about (I had properly stored my food in the bear locker and I had not gotten any of it on myself or my gear, plus bears typically avoid humans,) I employed the magic of my cellphone as a soother, reading my own ridiculous prose off of it until finally passing out. 

The next morning, I woke up with my worries of the night before utterly vanished - what was there to stress about? I was in a beautiful place, I was alone and I was on the PCT - the world was suddenly my oyster. Let me just repeat that - I was alone. I know it sounds weird, but I couldn’t have been more gleeful. I didn’t have to talk to anybody - it was just me, the shifting trees, the squirrels, and the (unseen,) bears. I loaded up my reservoir with a fresh supply of filtered creek water then set off, determined to make it to the border and the official finish line of the PCT - the northern terminus. 

This was the first trip that I used my Katahdin BeFree on - I really liked its simplicity, but I think I need to test it more before writing a review.

The first of many deadfalls needing a visit from a chainsaw. As far as I can tell, the trail hadn’t seen spring maintenance yet when I was there.

Mountains!

Within metres the trail opened up, showing my views of craggy peaks which I couldn’t believe were visible from Manning (little did I know that later on in the year I would see even better on Manning’s Skyline II Trail.) The trail dipped steadily along the long flank of a mountain towards Castle Creek, becoming progressively more covered in deadfall as I went. Thanking the agility earned from a lifetime of hiking, I jumped, climbed, balanced and rerouted my way around the obstacles in my path until at last I saw a glimmer of water off to my left. Excited, I hurried forwards and at last looked upon something which I didn’t immediately realize was an obstacle - Castle Creek itself. It shone beneath the sun and I happily climbed up onto its bridge, only to stop in my tracks (the mosquitoes had apparently abandoned me overnight so I was fine with halting for a moment.) 

Um... what?

Something just isn’t the way that it is supposed to be! 

Oh my. (Note the broken support strut.)

I stared. I got back off of the bridge and contemplated, stared at the span, which was thoroughly twisted from whatever had besieged it over the stormy winter. One of its support struts was busted and the deck of the bridge with its railing was so warped that I didn’t dare cross it. I might have been safe, but I value my life, so my gaze fell upon the creek flowing below. 

So, I guess it’s time that I tested out all that stuff I read about stream crossings.

This is my ‘I wasn’t expecting to learn this firsthand so soon and I am hoping that I won’t die’ face.

I had never done a true stream crossing - I had picked my way across water bodies only a few centimetres deep, but I had never had to wade. Not wanting to be stopped short of my goal, I stepped closer to the bank, surveying the water and judging the risk it presented. Finally deciding that it appeared safe enough from years of experience wading in rocky Canadian lakes, I took off my shoes, stuffed my socks into my pockets, then began my crossing. The water was fiercely cold but the route I had charted from the bank proved as safe as I had thought it and with the help of my singular trekking pole, I reached the other side. Elated at my success, I re-adorned my footwear then climbed up the embankment and into the PCT’s border camp.

Castle Creek looking pretty and feeling extremely cold on the legs.

Safely on the other side.

Within a few hundred metres I had reached my destination - the heralded, slightly shabby and completely magnificent (bias is a glorious thing,) northern terminus. After reading so much about the trail over the years, seeing the few chunks of nationally flagged weather beaten wood in a deforested strip of land was like reaching a holy temple. I stood there, took a somewhat large collection of pictures and videos (so that my future self could revisit the moment, you see,) and cried a bit (because that’s what you do when you stand in the presence of sacred rotting wood.) After vowing tearfully that the next time I saw it I would earn the right to be in the withering monument’s presence (the monument which was quite promptly replaced by the PCTA, likely only a couple of weeks after I was there,) then staring longingly into Washington a bit (the trail calls,) I retraced my path back to PCT Camp to pack up my tent which I had left behind to save weight. 

Unseen in most terminus photos - the hideous metal border marker which hangs out right beside it.

Next time I see this thing I would like to feel significantly more accomplished.

Look! It’s Washington! I resisted the outstanding urge to investigate due to rules and laws and whatnot. (It’s illegal to pass over the border into the United States via the PCT which must be extremely annoying for southbound thru-hikers of the trail, since northbounders do not share their problem and can cross into Canada here just fine providing they have a permit to do so.)

Success after crossing back through Castle Creek; doing stream crossings barefoot usually isn’t advised, but I judged the creek bottom safe-ish for me. I’m going to have to pick up some stream crossing footwear for future adventures so that I don’t take this foolish risk again. Nothing can mess up your hike quite like injured feet, especially when you have no way of calling for help.

The rest of my hike was quite unremarkable, apart from the usual sightings of ill-prepared looking day hikers ruining my precious solitude. I attempted to spot my hot pink sun hat on the way out, but alas, my hat apparently didn’t love me anymore, because I never saw it. My hike was punctuated by encounters with pretty mushrooms, more day hikers headed up to Windy Joe, and a mama ruffed grouse and her brood of adorably fluffy babies. I returned to my car, dejected that I had to drive home (all the way home,) and promptly procrastinated by driving up to Cascade Lookout instead, deludedly thinking that I’d see a treasure trove of alpine wildflowers up there, but alas, all were dead. Finally admitting that it was time to drive home, I returned to the highway and left Manning, dreaming of the PCT all the way.

The slightly muddy-in-places steeplechase of the trail.

Mushrooms!

The mama ruffed grouse.

The Pacific Crest Trail (Canadian Portion):

- The Canadian end of the PCT, at 13 km (8 miles,) is barely a smidgeon of the trail’s total titanic length. It’s an easy trail, but expect lots of deadfall in spring, especially once you leave PCT Camp, and keep in mind that compared to other trails in E.C. Manning Provincial Park, it isn’t as scenic. If you’re coming to Manning for the first time, and you’re not a raving fan of the PCT like I am, then I’d probably give it a pass and hike the Skyline Trail II or Heather Trail instead. The trail is mostly a pretty green forest tunnel, with just a few peeking views of the mountains.

- If you do hike this trail, then Windy Joe may be worth a visit for some views (or for temporarily escaping the mosquitoes.) It’s also a good day hike, although I would hazard to say that the First Brother on the Heather Trail is a more scenic adventure with better views.  There are excellent maps on the official government Manning Provincial Park page to help you with this.

- That’s also where you need to go to buy your backcountry permit if you intend to spend the night out in the wilderness.

- You can also access Mount Frosty from this trail; it is reputedly quite a grueling hike, and I haven’t done it yet.

- As I mentioned, at PCT Camp there’s a bear locker and a creek for water; keep in mind that towards the end of summer, water sources can run thin or become non-existent. There’s no tent pads, but there’s plenty of space for your tents. There is a fire pit (only to be used when there’s no fire ban) and an outhouse (pit toilet.)

- PCT northbound thru-hikers usually pass through this final section of the trail in late summer and fall.

Getting There:

- Obviously, the easiest way to get there is by car. If you don’t have one, then it is best to rent one.

- The closest airport to Manning Provincial Park is in Penticton.

- There is currently no bus service to Manning as there once was, although it may be possible that the new Ebus will provide this.

When I Was There: Early July

Temperature Range I Experienced: 10 to 32 ºC

Always Remember: Be prepared! The mountains don’t listen to the weatherman - definitely look at the forecast, but take it as law to your folly. Always bring rain protection (at the very least a $2 plastic emergency poncho,) warm layers, food, water and a first aid kit, no matter what. Your first aid kit doesn’t have to be fancy - mine pretty much consists of leukotape, duct tape, pain killer, tiny scissors, a sewing needle, thread and vet wrap. Always study (and carry,) a map of your trail to predict availability of water and pay attention to trail reports - for example, on the Skyline Trail II there is very little available so it was important to carry extra, but on the northernmost end of the Pacific Crest Trail there’s water every few hundred metres, so extra water wasn’t necessary for that section. Similarly, there was copious water on the West Highland Way in Scotland, so carrying extra beyond the two litres which I was drinking daily there was the definition of silly - however hike somewhere hot like the Mohave Desert and you may find yourself having to carry several day’s worth of drinking water. Once again, be prepared!

[hikertracks]

Hidden Wonder in Manning

E.C. Manning Provincial Park’s Skyline Trail - not to be confused with Jasper National Park’s rather more famous Skyline Trail. (’Skyline’ is a relatively popular name for a trail and I believe that there are probably several more in the world than just these two here in western Canada.)

Most people who pass through E.C. Manning Provincial Park or even spend a few days in its beautiful front country never realize the true majesty which this park hoards. Over the course of my life thus far, I’ve been to Manning a few times, but until this hike, I never had an inkling of what the place was concealing beyond the reach of its average visitor. If you’re just there for a camping trip to play in Lightning Lake, you’ll never know what is waiting just a few kilometres away, ready to surprise you. Even on the popular Heather Trail, you don’t quite get an inkling of what’s here, but hike up the Skyline Trail II, and suddenly you’ll see that Manning is actually home to scenery equal to anything found in the Rockies.

Manning’s iconic front country - in this case, the trail alongside beautiful Lightning Lake, Manning’s most famous body of water.

E.C. Manning Provincial Park is located between Princeton and Hope on Highway 3 in the far south of British Columbia and it is easily accessible from either the lower mainland or the Okanagan. You can get there by driving via the Okanagan Connecter, cruising down the magnificent Okanagan Valley itself, or by taking the Coquihalla, so there are many options for reaching the place. On this trip, I took the scenic route through Penticton to avoid poor conditions elsewhere and took advantage of the late season quiet in the park by spending the night at its normally packed Lightning Lake Campground. After setting up camp (aka, parking my Subaru,) I took a warm-up hike along the shores of the Lightning Lake chain to loosen up my muscles for the next day and get an idea of the conditions. Delighted by the mist drifting across the lake and the sight of brilliant golden larch trees upon a distant slope, I went to bed excited about my hike the next day.

Distant larch trees herald fall, and make me dream of future hikes among their golden ranks. I’ve always loved larches in summer, but to see them up close in fall when they are reputedly at their most resplendent is a goal which escaped me this year - but at least I still got to see them from afar!

Frost gilded everything the next morning and a fresh dusting of snow coated the ground. After raiding the campground toilet for toilet paper (having intelligently forgotten to pack Kleenex,) I made sure that my pack was ready before abandoning my front country camp for the trailhead. Arriving at Strawberry Flats, I went through my usual routine of forgetting to grab important articles such as my trekking poles from my car before finally locking up. Bidding my noble vehicle adieu and feeling rather miserable because my silly hands* were on fire from the cold despite my two layers of gloves, I set off, morbidly thinking that if circumstances didn’t improve, I’d be turning my long-awaited backpacking trip into a day hike. 

A mule deer doe perused the picnic tables in Lightning Lake’s campground the morning of my hike. 

Strawberry Flats Trailhead sign - my first destination was the Skyline II Junction.

My first appreciated taste of sunshine that day came after a couple of kilometres.

I normally don’t get excited about ascending, but at the first sight of a hill I happily charged forwards, desperate to warm up my suffering hands with hot blood from my heart. For the first few kilometres I was locked in the embrace of the frozen forest, but after a while things began to open up, the snowy trees reminding me happily of a ski resort. My uphill efforts began paying off, the sun also doing its part, and by the time I reached the top of that first ascent with my first true views (which were nothing compared to what I would see,) I was down to my baselayers, my formally beleaguered hands once more content. With views of Manning Park Ski Resort, I plunged back into the forest and along a slope, never expecting to see what awaited me at the first opening in the trees.

As I climbed higher the land began to warm up a little - although not by much!

The sun calls me forward.

Suddenly, square ahead to my right was a magnificent dog-toothed peak, its handsome point sticking up over a ridge – and, it had friends. I stopped in my tracks, shocked that this was here in Manning and examining the situation, I dared to hope that the trail might take me closer to it. Back into the forest along the slope I went, within a few minutes finally reaching the junction of the Skyline Trail I and the Skyline Trail II where I paused for a snack of cheese and granola bars, stunned by an elaboration of my previous view. Eager to continue onwards, I gulped down my calories and plunged on, within minutes finally reaching the edge of the forest. Breaking out into subalpine meadow made golden by autumn, I suddenly found myself surrounded by panoramic views of jagged glacial peaks and rugged mountains. Hiking further, I came to the peak of Snow Camp, where I encountered my only fellow hikers of the day and an unobstructed view of Mount Hozomeen, the sharp peak which I had previously spotted. All around me was splendour and I was glad that I hadn’t turned around. 

My first introduction to the star of this hike, Washington’s Mount Hozomeen. The Skyline Trail would soon take me into the bald alpine patch to its right in this photo.

It’s impossible to tell that this much gorgeous exists just a few kilometres into the backcountry.

My incredible lunch spot.

Spectacular Mount Hozameen, with the incredible completion of the Lightning Lake Chain’s valley. Seen below is Thunder Lake.

As the day hikers turned back for the trailhead, I was left completely alone in that magnificent quiet wilderness. The air was chill but this only made the conditions better for hiking, and the blue sky made enjoying the epic scenery surrounding me easy. I reached Mowich Camp at exactly 3 PM and with the azure skies persisting overhead, I set up my tent before continuing on to Hozomeen Ridge, where I was treated to pristine vistas of the untouched Skagit Valley as well as vantages of the grand mountains of Washington’s spectacular north Cascades, where Mount Hozomeen itself presides. It stunned me to think that I was looking into the States, and it ignited a flame for future, more close up studies of Washington’s stone serrations. I returned to camp racing the last dregs of daylight, hurriedly layering up and stuffing a hot dinner of Backpacker’s Pantry Pad Thai into my mouth before swiftly scrabbling into my sleeping bag burrow like some shivering fox.

My abode at Mowich Camp; I was completely alone there.

The magnificent utter wilderness of the Skagit Valley, which is definitely calling my name!

That night I learned a great deal about the sleeping equipment which I had brought; namely that my unisex Mountain Hardwear Hyperlamina Flame sleeping bag was insufficient for the subzero temperature with my female biology (women are factually colder than men.) I thus spent the majority of that frigid night dressed in every single one of my layers and staring at my pack beside me. My bag kept me alive, and protected me from hypothermia, but I wasn’t warm enough to rest, so for hours I had nothing to do apart from wait for morning. Thankfully, my Thermarest Neoair Xlite mat was up to the job of life support and protected me from the frozen ground, keeping my situation from being any worse, but I’ll be taking a warmer sleeping bag on my next shoulder season overnight jaunt! 

I awoke to wildly different conditions from the day previous; I was treated to sunshine no longer, and instead enjoyed the drama of Manning’s encroaching winter.

Despite the lack of views, weather like this is actually great for hiking, since it’s easier to regulate your body temperature without the sun roasting you. (There’s only so many layers you can remove - on the other hand, if you’re cold then you can layer up to your heart’s content!)

After lingering as long as I could in my tent, I left camp without eating breakfast, subsisting as I often do on bars while on the move. Frozen mist and light flurries greeted me, veiling the expansive mountains which had proudly heralded themselves the day previous. Climbing back to higher elevations, I was treated to a more personal, moody view of Manning’s nearer mountains which could have proven deadly had I been ill prepared, but past experience had informed me well. Spindrift blew freezing sleet across my path and the fading foliage was encrusted with delicate hoarfrost which crunched beneath my hiking shoes. Mount Hozomeen hid coyly from me in the clouds and I descended through the cold, feeling distinctly blue because my final backpacking adventure of the season was coming to an end. This feeling only increased as I reached my car, especially as I had cut my adventure short by a day (having accomplished all that I wanted to do much sooner than expected,) and I was contemplating either taking a day hike or beginning the gloomy roadtrip home when something made me turn. 

A reclusive Canadian Lynx decides that not only am I Not-a-Threat, but that I am entirely uninteresting.

Standing just fifty metres down the road from me stood one of the most rarely sighted animals in Canada; a lynx. She met my gaze, contemplating my peculiar presence in her frozen kingdom of snowshoe hares and sleeping trees, then she continued on her way, completely unconcerned with my existence. The fire in my spirit rekindled, I drove home, feeling glad that I had come and happy to be alive.

Hozomeen, you glorious wonder!

The Skyline Trail II:

- It is 12.5 kilometres to Mowich Camp on the Skyline Trail II, but you can actually follow the trail further, up over Hozomeen Ridge and down into the Skagit Valley to Ross Lake. 

- Not feeling up to sleeping in the backcountry? No problem; you can day hike to Snow Mount instead, or do the Skyline Trail I loop. There are excellent maps on the official government Manning Provincial Park page to help you with this. 

- That’s also where you need to go to buy your backcountry permit if you intend to spend the night out in the wilderness.

- Don’t feel like doing either? There’s scenic trails throughout the park – you just can’t see the same majesty which you can from the 20.4 kilometre (loop) Skyline Trail II. The 21 kilometre (one way) Heather Trail is a great introductory backpacking trip, with lots of options on distances and where to camp.

The Northern Terminus of the 4,265 km (2,650 mile) Pacific Crest Trail, is another sight to see in Manning for the dedicated hiker. I was one of the last people to see the old version of the monument this past July 2018; it has since been replaced by a new one (which looks exactly the same but without the weathering.)

Getting There:

- Obviously, the easiest way to get there is by car. If you don’t have one, then it is best to rent one.

- The closest airport to Manning Provincial Park is in Penticton.

- There is currently no bus service to Manning as there once was, although it may be possible that the new Ebus will provide this.

This snowshoe hare was enjoying the relative lack of tourists in autumn for going about its business.

When I Was There: Early October

Temperature Range I Experienced: -8 to 5 ºC

Manning is gorgeous, and worth a visit any time of the year - even if you can’t make it out into its amazing backcountry!

Always Remember: Be prepared! The mountains don’t listen to the weatherman - definitely look at the forecast, but take it as law to your folly. Always bring rain protection (at the very least a $2 plastic emergency poncho,) warm layers, food, water and a first aid kit, no matter what. Your first aid kit doesn’t have to be fancy - mine pretty much consists of leukotape, duct tape, pain killer, tiny scissors, a sewing needle, thread and vet wrap. Always study (and carry,) a map of your trail to predict availability of water and pay attention to trail reports - on the Skyline Trail II there is very little available so it was important to carry extra, but on the northernmost end of the Pacific Crest Trail there’s water every few hundred metres, so extra water wasn’t necessary for that section. Similarly, there was copious water on the West Highland Way in Scotland, so carrying extra beyond the two litres which I was drinking daily there was the definition of silly - however hike somewhere hot like the Mohave Desert and you may find yourself having to carry several day’s worth of drinking water. Once again, be prepared!

* My fingers are the victims of six years of frigid newspaper carrying in -30 ºC conditions with terrible hand protection.

[hikertracks]

My Introduction to Thru-hiking

(Originally posted here on June 6th 2018.) 

For one glorious week of my life this past April, I had exactly one amazing job: hiking.

Me at the top of the bizarrely dreaded Devil’s Staircase, between Glencoe and Kinlochleven. Taken by my awesome English buddy who hiked with me for a couple of days.

Every day I got up, ate a Cliff Bar or two while writing in my leather bound journal, checked my water, packed up camp, and set off hiking along the West Highland Way, Scotland’s oldest and first long distance trail, a 154.5 kilometre/96 mile stretch which links Milngavie (pronounced ‘Mulguy,’) with Fort William. With aspirations of someday hiking the far longer Pacific Crest Trail (4,265 km/2,650 miles,) but with a travel itch which needed scratching, I set out to hike the longest trail which I had ever encountered. The fact that I did the majority of it solo is unremarkable - most thru-hikers hike by themselves, after all - but for me personally it was remarkable just because it was my first time hiking that kind of distance. In the end, I would prove that I am fully capable of doing it, albeit with proper gear and layers - of which, despite my months of planning and theorizing, I didn’t quite have. (I’m glad for this though, because now I know better on a lot of things.)

A small loch I encountered on my first day. Note the rain.

So, what was it like? You’re probably imagining that it was some sublime experience for me, and in many ways, it absolutely was, and I will say here that the thru-hiking bug has bitten me hard, but much of it wasn’t so sweet. In fact, I spent a lot of my hike feeling either bitter or angsty - the amount of swearwords in my journal attest to this. The problem is, I came to this hike from months of intensely social retail work, and as an introvert, I needed a break, time to be by myself, but on the busy West Highland way, solitary, I was not - which was actually okay, but a lot of the interactions I had with other hikers really got my goat. For example, random fellow hikers had a very frustrating habit of asking whether or not I was okay - this, to me, got very tiring. Quote my journal: “…unless I am visibly bleeding out, limping, or my leg is obviously broken, I am okay!”

I think people tended to ask this due to my tendency to double over to shift my incorrectly fitting (stupidly) heavy pack up off of my shoulders to give my skeleton a break every few minutes (especially if I was hiking uphill. I was like a runaway freight train going downhill.) It also aggravated me when people expressed amazement at my hiking by myself, or, gasp, hiking by myself as a female - heaven forbid! (Seriously, stop. There is nothing amazing about being a solo female hiker. Nothing.) I should also note that I am socially inept, to the point where I am confused when people express care for me. I am gratefully baffled for all the people who asked if I was alright, even if their concern bewildered me completely. From the bottom of my socially obtuse heart, thank you.

My trail name is Wolf (a name which I received last year backpacking in Garibaldi,) - and I’m Canadian - so these patches adorned my pack to tell my fellow hikers who I was.

So, I was a bit of an angry hiker. Due to various issues, I entertained a few hours over the course of the trail (primarily after Tyndrum and the dreaded layering mishap,) of thinking of quitting too, but I bullied myself out of that bullshit pretty fast. I was determined to hike the trail, and I knew that I’d never forgive myself if I failed. This might sound extreme, but consider that the West Highland Way is only 154.5 kilometres/96 miles long - that’s small change compared to longer hikes out there like the vast Appalachian Trail. I wouldn’t have felt like I had accomplished anything if I had bailed on the Way, and I certainly wouldn’t have felt worthy of my hiking boots. Had I bailed after several hundred kilometres of, say, the Pacific Crest Trail, I would have been cool with it - after all, that would have been several hundred more kilometres than I had ever hiked before - but the Way is tiny in comparison.

I couldn’t give up, so I didn’t.

Physically, I didn’t care that I was filthy, that I probably stunk (I have an exceptionally poor sense of smell, which is a benefit when living with one’s own hiker stink,) or even really that my feet were a mess. (Okay, I cared about that a lot - but there was little that I could do about it except try thru-hiker tricks which I’d read about. I did my best, and my feet survived the trail just fine. Good job, feet. I did take a grim pride in lancing my blisters, I will admit.)

My glorious noble feet, which I recently learned thanks to my experience on the Way are allergic to their own sweat. I feel special. (Also some mud.)

I didn’t care that I didn’t take a shower for the whole trail - I could care less about those normally anyway. The idea of showering then putting back on my filthy hiking gear utterly repulsed me, so I was far happier remaining a grungy wild thing. Really, the only thing which actually repulsed me were ticks - so I never did check behind my ears for them; the little bastards were probably there, but there was nothing that I could do about them, so I preferred just not knowing about their existence on my body unless they were somewhere I could see/reach. Of midges, I never encountered them until I was in Fort William, after my time on the trail was over.

It was only alongside the magnificent Caledonian Canal in Corpach near Fort William that I ever encountered the dreaded Scottish midges, and there were only a few of them.

Walking the Way and visiting Scotland is one of the best things that I have ever done, but it wasn’t enough. I need more adventure, more wilderness, and more solitude. While at this time I’m not sure whether I would hike the Pacific Crest Trail thanks to my time on the Way, I still dream of the experience, and I dream of tackling another thru-hike, albeit with proper gear and a lighter pack. I made several dumb mistakes with my pack - using one which didn’t fit right (not that I entirely knew this going in,) carrying too much food, carrying too much water and carrying too many layers of clothing. I learned a lot about my gear over the seven days I took to hike the trail, knowledge which I will apply to my next great adventure. Someday I’ll get my pack right, the way that I want it, but for now, I’m just grateful to have what I have learned from this trip.

Even though I was a (albeit silent,) grumpypants I’m intensely grateful for the wonderful people who I met, and the landscapes I saw, and the animals - even those damned ticks. They made my adventure richer, even if I was afraid of them and absolutely detested ripping them out of my skin (along with parts of said flesh. I became very handy with my tweezers.) I learned so much in Scotland, and I can’t wait to go again someday - although next time, I do think that I’ll perhaps just be a regular tourist/day hiker. There’s a lot of stuff which I didn’t get to see because the Way took up the majority of my two week vacation, so next time I’ll indulge in that.

Me conquering Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park in Edinburgh was probably one of my favourite sightseeing stops in Scotland. Holyrood Park itself is probably my favourite urban park in the entire world - Stanley Park in Vancouver, eat your heart out!

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: thank you, Scotland.

[hikertracks]

A Lesson in Layering: Suffering Scotland’s Spite

(Originally posed here on June 5th 2018.)

Also called ‘that time I was an idiot and got drenched hiking beside bonny Loch Lomond.’ (Or: ‘A Story about Hypothermia.’)

Layering: it’s an art form, which I always think that I am starting to get somewhat good at until I fail spectacularly. The first time this happened, I contracted hypothermia, but thanks to the (mostly) proper action which I took, I didn’t die from my mistake. On this glorious day in Scotland, trekking the beautiful West Highland Way, I made a mistake which could have killed me.

What is ‘layering,’ you non-hikers/outdoorsy people ask? It’s the art of dressing in layers according to circumstances of weather and temperature. The idea is to wear just the right clothing for the current situation which you exist in so that you are neither too hot nor too cold so that you not only stay happy, but you don’t die because your body is too cold (hypothermia) or too hot (hyperthermia/heat stroke.) Again, both conditions can kill you, so it’s important to take care of yourself and get your layering right if you’re in the backcountry where you may be far from help should something go wrong.

Intimidated? The main rules of layering for outdoorsy pursuits are simple -NEVER wear cotton (once cotton is wet it stays wet - Search and Rescue calls it ‘the death cloth’ and there’s a saying ‘cotton kills’ for a reason - it loses 95% of its insulating value when wet, at which point it also conducts crucial body heat away from you) and choose layers which either dry quickly (such as synthetic fibres like polyester,) or retain their thermal properties when wet (i.e. merino wool.) Wet clothing chills your skin, making you cold - in fact, a primary goal of layering is to avoid sweating, since sweat, like any other liquid when chilled, can cause your internal body temperature to drop, thus giving you hypothermia. And don’t think you’re safe just because of summer as more people fall prey to exposure in summertime than in winter because of a lack of preparedness.

And don’t ever get cocky - for example, just because I have a lifetime of backcountry experience, it doesn’t mean that I am safe from mistakes. Don’t ever dare believe that you’re invincible from peril just because of experience, no matter how impressive, because Mother Nature likes to reward such bravado with hard knocks - or death.

My layering on a day when I used my brain - note the saturated face fabric of my Gore-Tex waterproof shell and my sopping wet hair - it was very wet out! I was significantly less clever on the day of my mishap.

Imagine the lush green forests of Loch Lomond - actually, don’t, here’s a picture to set the scene, from the day I screwed up:

Just a nice cruise along the quiet northern end of Loch Lomond.

It had been sort of spritzing all day and the temperature was mild. Fellow hikers all claimed that it was going to really rain at some point, but none of them could agree about what time that it would. With how every other spritz of rain had passed, I turned decidedly derisive of the truth of any forecast. Scotland had already proved that it did whatever the hell it pleased in terms of weather, so I was just going with the flow, but it was about to prove its derision even more. It was on this day that I learned: Scotland doesn’t care about what the weatherman has to say, but occasionally, it does (sort of) do what is predicted, but only on its own terms.

So, it had basically been overcast all day and it didn’t really look like it was going to do much more, despite the small instances of spritzing. I was focused on slaying kilometres and getting to a certain spot on my map, a hill called Cnap Mor, which lays at the very end of Loch Lomond. I didn’t want to waste time by layering up - and this, folks, could be a fatal mistake. It’s always worth your time to take time layering up or down - better to lose a bit of time putting your pack cover on than have wet gear. But, of course, I was trying to slay kilometres, right? I had a long way to go - I was on Day 3, and I needed to get my butt to Fort William, which was still a vast number of kilometres away.

Definitely the right kind of weather for incomplete rain gear. Definitely.

It was near Ardleish, at the top tip of Loch Lomond that I began to fail myself. Here, on the last shore of the loch on the trail the wind started gusting and the rain started pouring. I donned my Gore-Tex jacket and put on my pack cover; believing that the rain would pass, I didn’t don my rain pants or gaiters, and this is where I fucked up. I thought about it, considered it, then didn’t do it.

I’m very conscious that I could have died because of this slip up. I’m very lucky that I was in Scotland, and not some place like the Rockies, where the temperature would have dropped much lower. Scotland’s temps in April were wonderfully mild - ranging most of the trip around 11 °C - but back in the Canadian Rockies where I most often hike, temperatures regularly drop below freezing at night, even in the heat of summer. Even so, I still could have died in Scotland’s mild weather - most people who meet their maker because of hypothermia do it in mild temperatures which are well above freezing, just like what I experienced that evening in beside Loch Lomond.

Not seen: the wind blasting in my face. And the sheep.

So, like an idiot, I hiked on, wanting to slay more kilometres. I didn’t understand that I should have stopped there - it would have been a good place to camp. I remember thinking all day as well as the one before how nice it would be to maybe camp beside the loch, and this would have been the smart thing, but nope, I decided to hike on.

Very quickly, within the hour, I realized that this was a bad idea, but I refused to turn back, wanting to destroy more distance. Water began running over the trail and I started consciously hunting for a place to stop for the night, but there weren’t any good campsites to be found. I dismissed the one likely candidate I found (while still not donning rain pants or gaiters,) due to fears of nearby widowmakers (dead trees or ones looking likely to fall,) which was probably a wise decision, but I was already making a really bad one. So, I hiked.

And so the trail slowly became a shallow river.

And hiked. The day grew old, but I couldn’t find a place to stop and there were no other hikers left on the trail, the Way completely deserted apart from me. I prospected a few more maybe camping stops, but I was getting very tired, I was soaked to the bone, and the only thing keeping me warm was my continued movement. The water running over the trail was three centimetres deep; it was so wet that even my waterproof socks were saturated - something which wouldn’t have happened had I been wearing my rain pants and gaiters. Everything I was wearing was soaked.

The view of tiny Dubh Lochan from the hillside where I eventually managed to make camp. It was the flattest and driest piece of ground which I could find, which wasn’t saying much. Everywhere else the ground was soaked, and it was soaked there too.

Eventually, I thought that I saw a faint trail leading up from the Way and I clambered up the hillside where I found a somewhat flat piece of ground which was to be my sanctuary. I set my tent up in the pouring rain then clambered inside with my Packtowel to mop it dry of the literal puddles which had gathered inside of it during its pitching. Thankfully, my synthetic sleeping bag was fine, as was my Neoair Xlite mat - so were both of my heavier midlayers and my hiking dress. I slowly peeled off my soaked clothes, blessing the fact that the temperature was actually warm enough for me not to instantly freeze despite being in a state of undress, and snuggled into my sleeping bag.

Then, to add insult to injury, my matches and piezo igniter were also soaked, so I couldn’t cook in my tent’s vestibule as I had planned. A hot meal would have been just the thing after so much suffering, but alas, it was not to be. I ate Cliff Bars and hard cheese for dinner instead, with some mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for dessert. I made sure that I ate at least five hundred calories, then, as my brain slowly relaxed out of survival mode and I finally fully confirmed that I was safe from hypothermia, my body dry and warm again, I finally let myself sleep.

Scotland’s creeks and rivers are very well fed.

The next morning, all my clothing which I had worn the day before was still extremely wet. Thus, I donned what would become my leg wear for the entire rest of the trail - my rain pants and gaiters. I never again hiked without them - in this environment, it just wasn’t worth it to have another mishap. That night I intelligently took a hostel room in Tyndrum to dry out my gear and I continued the trail as a much smarter person. I’d learned from my mistake, and I never underestimated Scotland again - from then on, I changed my layering as needed. I eventually just started keeping my Gore-Tex jacket around my waist rather than bothering removing my pack to stow it when I didn’t need it (there were precious few good places on trail to do this,) and I learned how to change my upper layers without taking off my backpack at all. Thus, I kept my layering system quick, and I didn’t get soaked again. I almost never removed my pack cover; I kept myself and my gear dry.

Properly layered and comfortable on the second to last day, at the windy top of the Devil’s Staircase between Glencoe and Kinlochleven.

That night by Dubh Lochan, had I not had a dry shelter, sleeping bag and midlayers the night before, hypothermia could have taken me out - and the most important thing you need to know about hypothermia is that it’s a quiet killer. As your core body temperature drops, your body begins to shiver as it desperately tries to bring its temperature back up - but if your temperature continues to plunge, you eventually stop shivering, stop talking (if you can’t speak it is seriously bad news,) and eventually… you just fall asleep - and without intervention, you never get back up. The human body is incapable of tolerating temperature fluctuations of more than a few degrees, so once its internal temperature wavers, things can go south pretty fast.

The moral of the story - layer your clothing, follow your instincts (I repeatedly thought that I should layer up but didn’t,) and change your layers according to circumstance. I failed to layer up and I paid the price - literally - since my mistake necessitated my unplanned stop in Tyndrum to dry my gear so that I could continue my hike. But, an unplanned stop in Tyndrum was much superior to my unplanned demise (and I ended up eating something other than dehydrated hiker chow for supper in Tyndrum at its divine Real Food Cafe, plus I bought a small delicious hoard of Snickers and Scottish chocolate bars. I also bought new socks, which I promptly got soaked within ten minutes the next day. I digress.)

My sanctuary in Tyndrum; I had this entire room all to myself - it was wondrous! (Not seen: my gear spread absolutely everywhere.)

Thank you for teaching me an apparently much needed lesson about layering, Scotland.

[hikertracks]

Gear of the Way

(Originally posted here on June 4th 2018.)

Looking down into glorious Glen Nevis.

I’d like a moment to discuss how well my gear functioned on my thru-hike of the West Highland Way this past April. Firstly, I’d like to note that since the Way is in Scotland, I had to pack a few things which I wouldn’t usually, which meant I started out my epic journey looking like this, because I had to account for things like stowing my backpack full of valuable gear in an extremely large aircraft (a Boeing 787 named Mimosa, to be specific.) This stuff simply wouldn’t come along on a North American thru-hike, not unless I had to fly to get to it or something.

The pack cover, purse, and ultralight duffel bag probably won’t come on my next adventure. Note that the TSA decided to steal the lock, even though it was supposedly TSA approved.

Come day one, all that travel stuff was packed, and I looked like this instead.

Intelligently clad in Gore-Tex. Note the rain. Scotland likes rain; I suspect that it isn’t entirely sure what sunshine is, and that it only inflicts it upon its people in order to trick them into a false sense of security before trolling them again with yet more rain. Weather forecast says sun? Lol, no, keep dreaming - it’s gonna rain. Pack your waterproofs, folks. (And by waterproofs I mean a full body suit of the stuff.)

There’s quite a few things which I’d drop on a future hike. Namely, them buffs (’neck gaiters’) - after the first couple of days, I basically never wore them. I liked the Canada one for roaming Scotland in a non-hiking capacity (for its ability to scream that I am not American, thank you,) but it wasn’t really all that useful on trail. Between the start and the end of the trail, thanks to my bringing far too much clothing (which no doubt contributed to my suspected 40 lb pack weight,) and one evening where I was very stupid with my layering, my garb would change quite a lot.

I started the hike dressed in a Mountain Hardwear Dynama hiking skirt, fuzzy synthetic leggings, three layers of Icebreaker merino wool shirts and Merrell Moab FST non-waterproof hiking shoes with Icebreaker merino socks layered with waterproof Sealskinz ones which I bought at Tiso in Glasgow, then promptly lost on my third day of the trail after my layering mishap.

What was the layering mishap? I think I’ll write about it in another post - suffice to say, everything I was wearing got soaked - and I do absolutely mean everything, including the waterproof SealSkinz socks. Let’s start with them:

My SealSkinz keep me dry near Milngavie (pronounced Mulguy.)

SealSkinz - these were indeed great at keeping me dry (until they didn’t, but that was my fault, not theirs,) but the fit was, shall we say, awful. Despite buying the proper size, these socks caused my index toes to rub against my big toes, specifically, making my index toenails chafe against the unsuspecting flesh of my big toes. It caused blisters, and it was painful. If you ever buy these, go up a size, or better yet, try the new Bridgedale StormSocks which’ve just been released. I know I’ll be getting them next time. I lost my pair of SealSkinz after I pinned them to the back of my pack to dry them out and the obvious happened.

Merrell Moab FST (non-waterproof) - there’s a lot of positive things to be said for wearing non-waterproof footwear instead of waterproof. Non-waterproof kicks dry faster and are more breathable, which means better blister prevention, since blisters typically occur in a wet environment. Unfortunately, Scotland finds raining all day absolutely hilarious - thus, my shoes never had a chance to dry out. That being said, they were freakin’ awesome in almost every other way, and these grippy shoes took really good care of my feet… they just didn’t prevent blisters thanks to the fact that my poor feet were almost always soaked once the SealSkinz were lost. The only other thing I have against them is that they weren’t great for preventing stone bruising.

On top of a bridge near Drymen; taken by the Kevins, my favourite pair of fellow thru-hikers. I sadly never found out whether they completed the trail or not; I last saw them along the shores of Loch Lomond on Day 3. I was decidedly jet lagged in this shot.

Mountain Hardwear Dynama Skirt - probably the best commercially available hiking skirt in the entire world. It boasts deep, useful pockets, quick dry water repellent stretchy fabric and a glorious stretchy waistband which won’t chafe under a hip belt or constrict your ability to consume inhuman quantities of spaghetti. The only bad thing I have to say about it is that it attracts cat hair.

Outdoor Research Aspire Jacket - this is probably the best Gore-Tex jacket ever invented for hiking due to its superior ventilation. You can literally unzip it from hip to armpit, and this thing became one of my favourite pieces of gear on the trail. It really, really took good care of me and I’d buy another one in a heartbeat if something happened to this one. The men’s version is called the Foray.

Ahh, Trekking Pole. The piece of gear which I almost didn’t bring, which I was the most glad that I did. Trekking Pole was my very best friend on the trail, and it shall accompany me on all future journeys whether they are epic or not. Taken on top of ancient melted hill fort Dun Deardail. I left Trekking Pole’s partner in Canada due to shoulder tendonitus.

Black Diamond Trail Pro Shock Trekking Pole - Trekking Pole was my dearest friend on trail; it kept me stable when the footing was dicey, it helped me to overcome obstacles, it was an outstanding coat rack and I found stabbing it into the ground unreasonably entertaining. I felt bad for leaving its mate at home, but considering that I almost didn’t bring it either, I am so glad that I did. It was an outstanding piece of gear, and I can’t wait to take it backpacking again!

Me, posing with the original West Highland Way finish line. The new trail terminus literally has a finish line. Note the purple waterproof pants and my red gaiters, which became staples of my kit.

Mountain Hardwear Stretch Ozonic Pants - following the great Rosy-getting-soaked for underestimating Scotland’s watery spite incident, I didn’t wear my leggings or skirt anymore. This wasn’t because my skirt failed in any way - Scotland was just so damned wet that I ended up wearing these rain pants constantly instead. Turns out, with their soft, stretchy, breathable goodness, they’re also outstanding hiking pants. They didn’t cut all of the wind, but I appreciated this when I when I was hiking hard (which was always.)

Outdoor Research Expedition Crocodile Gaiters - these have been a staple of my kit for years now, but these tough gaiters are another favourite piece of gear for me. They keep the wind off of my lower legs completely, protect me from bugs as well as nefarious scratchy foliage, they protect my rain pants from wear and they protect me from myself, since I tend to accidentally scuff my inside leg with my boot, which has drawn blood before. They also help keep my legs warm, which was invaluable when the frigid Highland winds were attempting to literally push me off trail.

Outdoor Research Ascendant Hoody - my new favourite midlayer! This thing was with me the whole way, but I discovered its true cleverness after the Rosy-getting-soaked incident. After that, I wore it pretty much constantly, and I found out the rather loose sleeves which I had previously bemoaned in pre-trip testing could be rolled up for ventilation purposes. It was also just snuggly as heck, and it was an excellent light layer of warmth. It kept some of the wind off and altogether it just became my go to. Sort of wish it had zippered pockets though.

The only time I ever took my midlayer off on the entire thru-hike apart from when I was in my tent. This was the final day; we were climbing up from Kinlochleven and I was just a wee bit tired.

Arc’teryx Soltera Dress - this tank dress became another staple; I wore just it beneath my Ascendant Hoody following the Rosy-getting-soaked incident. Its comfy quick dry goodness took very good care of me, and as a one piece outfit, it was great. I was really grateful that I brought it, considering how all my merino wool stuff got saturated in water, and took days to fully dry (thank you, Scotland.) I wish that it had (useful) pockets, but otherwise, this thing was perfect, and I’ll definitely be bringing it hiking again. (It does look a bit like a lab coat though.)

My beautiful second wild camp, which just happened to be chocked with ticks. (Little did I know that when I took this shot…)

Mountain Hardwear Ghost UL2 - my ultralight palace, which held up heroically in Scotland’s horrifically strong winds. My only qualm with it is that you can’t set it up fly-and-poles first as you can some other ultralight tents. It kept me 100% dry and protected (except from ticks, which rode into it upon my person.) I don’t understand why anyone would suffer a bivy instead, when this thing only weighs 2.7 lbs.

My backpack, after I had to lower it down an in-trail escarpment beside Loch Lomond which would stop a lot of people in their tracks. Note the copious mud.

Boreas Lost Coast 60 - this was my pack; except for its fit, it served me well, but after the first couple of days my hips forgot that it was there, while my shoulders continued screaming. I love its meshy pockets for storage and it is otherwise very comfortable, with good ventilation, but I can’t say that I’ll be bringing this pack on any more thru-hikes. This puppy will be retired to a weekend warrior pack, while an Osprey Eja will replace it for my longer distance treks. I love my Lost Coast 60′s hipbelt pockets though - they can hold a lot of Cliff Bars and cheese.

Mountain Hardwear Hyperlamina Flame - I actually hated this sleeping bag the first couple of nights, because it was hard to get out of with its peculiar half zipper, but over the course of the hike its awesomeness really shone. It kept me warm, it was cozy, and paired with my wonderful toasty Therm-a-rest Neoair Xlite mat, it was just a plain good snoozing set up. I never once felt cold in this thing and I had no trouble with its unique design once I got used to it. It had really good water resistance too, which I was especially thankful for after my layering mishap where I got soaked.

Fun fact: Primus isobutane canisters in Scotland look different than the ones in Canada! Hurray!

MSR Pocket Rocket - I’ve been pals with my MSR Pocket Rocket (version I) isobutane canister stove for three years now. It’s lightweight, reliable, it simmers (somewhat) and it’s fun to watch it turn its own pot rests red (completely normal.) The new version II is just as good.

Snow Peak Trek 700 - my noble ultralight Titanium pot. Ti is by far the best material for an ultralight pot, and Snow Peak didn’t disappoint me. This thing is way lighter than my old stainless steel pot. I have a matching Snow Peak Ti spork too, so it was all in all a great kitchen set up combined with the before mentioned MSR Pocket Rocket. I’m just waiting now for it to turn pretty colours (since titanium discolours naturally with heat.) Excellent for boiling water for dehydrated hiker chow.

Sawyer Mini - my dauntless ultralight filter; my only qualm with it is that it takes a while to use and it requires you sticking your hand in potentially frigid or gross water sources. I got the Mini because Sawyer Squeezes aren’t available in Canada (nor are any Sawyer products available in any physical Canadian storefront - I got mine off of Amazon); I’ve just been given a Katahdin Befree, so I’ll be using that on my next adventure instead just to see how they compare. The Sawyer has a longer projected lifespan but the Befree might have a better flow rate; we’ll see.

Water, water, everywhere and plenty a drop to spare. Some pretty gorse growing alongside tranquil Loch Lomond.

I’m not going to go into every little thing I brought on the trail, but here’s a few more things which really worked for me:

Repackaging my dehydrated meals into large ziplock bags. I kept one original foil packaging bag which I would stick the full ziplock in when it came time to dehydrate the selected supper. Only disadvantage? None of the ziplocks were marked, so I usually had no idea what I was eating.

Bringing a horde of Kind and Cliff Bars, all of which were different flavours. This made snacking interesting, although the Cliff Bars tended to taste pretty similar anyway. I also adored hard cheese; I used cheese strings, Babybels and little individually wrapped chunks of delicious old cheddar. Cheese is an excellent source of fat, protein and happiness.

Bringing hand sanitizer. Having a water filter is all fine and dandy, but if your hands aren’t clean, you might as well drink the dirty water anyway. Giardia isn’t fun, kids. I also found this handy for lancing blisters, as I could treat my sewing needle (aka my surgical implement) and thread with it.

Having a sewing needle, for tormenting my feet lancing blisters. Yes, this means impaling a blister with a sharp object - I prefer a sewing needle because you can draw thread through the blister this way, thus keeping the drainage puncture open overnight. (Lance it in the evening so that it can drain while you sleep.) Do this at your own risk. I am not a doctor. There’s a risk of infection which I tried to mitigate by treating my needle and thread with hand sanitizer as an antiseptic.

Bringing Leukotape; this continues to be one of my favourite pieces of first aid kit. If you apply it on a body part that’s prone to blistering, it’ll prevent blistering there. It also prevents chafing, so I put it on my hips to protect them from my hip belt, which worked great, since my hips promptly forgot entirely about said hip belt. Do NOT put it on existing blisters as it will rip your skin off. Leukotape is waterproof, and sticks for days - mine stayed on my hips for the entire hike. The entire seven day hike! Leukotape is fun because it comes in interesting colours; my roll is blue. It’s a bit expensive, but it’s completely worth it, and a roll should last you a very long time. (Make sure you have scissors.)

I learned that tweezers are invaluable, thanks to Loch Lomond’s vast tick population. Eeeew.

Fluffy breathable spa socks are good friends for your feet at night.

Smartphone GPS apps like Viewranger are your best buddy. So long as you have the map tiles downloaded, you need not have data.

So’s Adobe Acrobat and .PDFs of your favourite novels or some other reading app.

My Anker power bank was another super helpful piece of kit, but I only used it with my camera - my greedy cellphone would have drained it.

Scottish tablet is a divine substance equal to godly ambrosia, and I demand that you eat it, should you ever visit Scotland. If you happen to see tablet in an Honesty Box (should you hike the Way,) buy it quick! It’s so good! (Always keep a few Pounds Sterling coins on hand for the Honesty Boxes, whether you like tablet or not. There’s other goodies to be had too, like Mars Bars and IRN BRU.*)

Having a purse handy was really useful for buying Scottish tablet from Honesty Boxes and otherwise gorging myself on treats besides those which I was already carrying. Calories are important!

I wish I’d had insect repellent. People will warn you plenty about the midges, but ticks are gross and they can screw your health up permanently - pretty sure the midges can’t. (I never encountered any midges though, since I went in April.)

In closing, I was happy with a lot of my gear, but a lot of what I brought won’t be accompanying me out again. That being said, gear selection must always vary by location, time of year and inclement weather potential. Scotland, which is the land of inclement weather, was rainy, windy, rainy, and full of mud. Waterproof footwear would have been better here than what I brought; my feet certainly would have survived the trail a bit better. That being said, my non-waterproof hiking shoes would have been absolutely perfect for most other places, so they weren’t a bad idea, just the wrong pick for Scotland. Had it been warmer, I would have also have worn a sun shirt and my caped Outdoor Research Sun Runner hat to protect the back of my neck, but that wasn’t something which I had to worry about when I went. Tailor your gear to where you’re going, and don’t overdo it.

*I found Scotland’s national soft drink, IRN BRU, rather gross - it was like a weird relative of cream soda, which I don’t like either. I apologize, Scotland.

[hikertracks]

The Many Different Stiles of the WHW

(Originally posted here on June 3rd 2018.)

…and gates, all of which were constructed to control Scotland’s burgeoning sheep population. Explore with me the many man made obstacles which I encountered, some of which defeated me more than others. I was especially stupid on my first day of my West Highland Waythru-hike, being dumber than a sack of rocks thanks to jet lag. (Although honestly my intelligence didn’t much improve, apparently hiking for hours makes me pretty stupid. I was only particularly clever at walking, although I still managed to get my feet soaked for absolutely no reason one day.)

These gates. They’re simple in execution, but they were horrendous, evil, and in some places (such as here,) there were two of the bastards. In my jet lagged state, I somehow always forgot how I had opened their brethren twenty minutes previous whenever I encountered new ones. Their deceptive locking mechanisms were the worst!

This remarkably normal gate, which warned about how dogs can be shot in Scotland for attacking sheep, ordering their handlers to take a seasonal different route.

I somehow doubt that the folks who built this one considered hikers with large packs when they produced this number. Suck in the gut!

This wasn’t a gate or a stile - just an enormously steep, slippery staircase/ladder hybrid. I went up it on all fours, then promptly applied hand sanitizer.

This one was a classic; thankfully, easy to navigate, although possibly treacherous when wet.

Slightly higher chance of ankle breakage with this one.

The potential peril is even stronger with this one!

Standin’ on a stile, with Trekking Pole by my side.

Looking back.

Not a stile, a gate, or even difficult to navigate, this trail of stepping stones across a stream was very well engineered and greatly appreciated. The Scots take really nice care of their trails, something I’d like to see more of here!

[hikertracks]

The West Highland Way

(Originally posted here on June 3rd 2018 as well as on VPO.CA.)

The view from atop Conic Hill, overlooking famous Loch Lomond.

In April 2018, I thru-hiked the West Highland Way, a 154.5 kilometre (or 96 mile) trail which runs from Milngavie (pronounced ‘Mulguy,’) just north of Glasgow to spectacular mountain town Fort William, which sits at western end of the Great Glen Fault, at the mouth of Loch Linnhe. The trail traverses through picturesque Scottish farmland, over mighty Conic Hill then along the lushly forested shores of famous Loch Lomond. From there, it cuts north into the West Highlands, where vast open spaces are spotted with snowy white sheep and broken with shimmering deep black creeks. Mountains ring the trail; waterfalls and heather are everywhere. After nearly touching Loch Tulla, the trail cuts north across Rannoch Moor, following an ancient road bed to Glencoe. The trail climbs over a pass, dips to Kinlochleven, then finally ends after a mountain trek in Glen Nevis, at the foot of the United Kingdom’s tallest peak, Ben Nevis. It’s a fantastic trail which is riddled in history, natural beauty, and a lot of water.

Arklet Waterfall at Inversnaid on Loch Lomond, which was the prettiest waterfall on the trail; note the invasive rhododendron surrounding it.

Don’t forget your Gore-tex here! Not only is Scotland derisive of weather forecasts, but with very few trees, it is also an incredibly windy country, with gusts which threatened to push me off trail. If you ever choose to follow in my footsteps on the Way, or even just visit Scotland in general, I’d recommend a full set of waterproof layers – Scotland is just that wet. At one point, I felt foolish for carrying more than two litres of drinking water in my pack, since generally, every few hundred metres or so there’s a water source, so bring a lightweight filter so that you can fill up at your convenience. Water is literally almost everywhere in this country!

The ruins of an old farm near Glen Nevis.

As far as adventures go, the West Highland Way falls somewhere between a great cultural experience such as the El Camino de Santiago and a wilderness adventure, however, if you’re seeking solitude, this isn’t the place to find it. While Scotland is stunningly beautiful, on the West Highland Way you can expect to encounter civilization rather frequently, meaning that you’re never far away from people or town. Locals use it as a foot path; an artery for dog walking, trail running and just getting outside. The trail is also frequently a road walk, although you’ll come to appreciate these flat(ish) sections after several hours of Loch Lomond’s shoreline. There’s always somebody nearby, so help is always close at hand if you happen to run into trouble – if you’re looking for a place to shout without anyone hearing you, this isn’t it. If you’re looking for a great way to experience Scotland, to really see its landscape and talk to its wonderfully friendly people, this is it!

This is a great adventure for solo and female travellers. Scotland is a very safe country with people who are generally trustworthy and absolutely no large predators. There’s no bears here to steal your Cliff Bars – in fact, there’s hardly even any squirrels, the Eurasian red squirrel happening to be an endangered species.

Perhaps because I have been hiking all of my life, I found it hilarious that people dread these gentle switchbacks going up the so-called Devil’s Staircase. I found the ascent to Conic Hill and some of the stuff along Loch Lomond much more gruelling!

Scotland was almost completely deforested hundreds of years ago, so with animal life which was adapted to the vanished forest, the Highlands can be eerily quiet. There’s deer to be seen here, and the odd bird, but compared to Scotland’s patches of lush forest, the Highlands lay silent, the wind which rushes through the deceptive peaks sounding lonely, as if remembering the trees which once stood in the mountains’ shadows. There’s no wolves here to sing in the cold of night, no lynxes to pad its mossy forest floor in search of hares or mice – you might see the odd fox, but of the great beasts which once roamed this land, there’s nothing left. The haunting empty landscape of the Way made me appreciate the biodiversity of British Columbia all the more – here, we still have our predators.

Scotland may not have wolves anymore, but it does have hordes of deer; here, two young Red Deer stags attempt to prove who is more manly near Loch Tulla.

There’s also hordes of feral goats on the West Highland Way, found along Loch Lomond.

The Way is riddled with history – the paths and roads which you stride are the work of soldiers and drovers long gone. At every turn, there’s some reminder that this place is old – that western civilization has been here far longer than one can completely fathom, even knowing the facts. As I walked the Way, I discovered moss covered ruins hidden in the green depths of the forest, minute graveyards on tiny hills, and the crumbling remains of little farms in windswept glens. I walked across the site of a battlefield, climbed to the remnant of an ancient hill fort which was once literally melted in an intense fire eons ago, and padded by a pile of stones representing a memorial to a slaughtered Scottish clan.

Mhm, steep trail side drop offs into deep lochs are super fun, especially when you’re wearing a 40 lb pack!

The next morning I made the terrible discovery that this campsite I picked on Loch Lomond was absolutely full of teensy, super gross baby ticks. I’m still suspicious whenever I see dark specks!

In Scotland, the people have the Right to Roam, so on my trek of the Way, I wild camped as much as I could. Leave no trace principles apply, but basically, so long as you follow the rules, you can camp just about anywhere. Although I loved the secret campsites which I found, I really don’t recommend this tactic for hiking the Way. Instead, do the smart thing – day hike it from town to town. There’s just not enough wilderness on the Way to justify wild camping, so do yourself a favour by carrying just a light pack instead. There’s luggage moving services in plenty, so you don’t have to worry about your suitcase. This makes the trail awesome for just about anybody, although this certainly isn’t a trail for those who aren’t reasonably fit. There’s some very technical sections with uneven trail, challenging obstacles and elevation gain (although nothing comparing to some of the steep trails which we can roam here in British Columbia!) At the very least, you must be able to climb over the rickety wooden stile gates which separate the expansive sheep pastures which you will travel through.

This is a stile; there are many different varieties of them to be found on the West Highland Way, all of them rather doubtful in their sheep-proofness and safety. Note the mud; mud was everywhere.

These sheep would like you to know that you will encounter thousands of their brethren if you hike the West Highland Way. According to the Scots I encountered, sheep are enormously lacking in intelligence and should never be trusted not to kill themselves in some ridiculous way. This duo was encountered near Drymen.

There are also many cows on the West Highland Way; I maintain that cows are scarier than bears. This one is wondering about the other cows in the pasture behind me, since she was all alone for some reason.

I found that food can be scarce, so it is best if you bring a supply with you and if you wild camp like I did, you’ll have to pick up fuel in Glasgow at a store like Tiso, since isobutane canisters cannot be transported via airplane. Believe it or not, despite the United Kingdom’s reputation for being expensive, food can be found cheaply if you stock up at stores like Lidl, where it’s relatively cheap, even with conversion. On trail, there’s excellent chow to be found in places like Balmaha and in Tyndrum, which boasts the outstanding Real Food Café. Along the Way you’ll find several places with Honesty Boxes, little unmanned stands where I found everything from tasty homemade Scottish tablet to local favourite soft drink IRN BRU to fresh fruit from Spain to bottles of water and Mars Bars. I came to love these boxes, and I always kept a few Pounds Sterling handy for the joyful occasion of finding them!

Scottish tablet, one of the most delicious substances on the entire planet.

In closing, here’s a summary of this outstanding trail, which definitely belongs on your bucket list:

Length: 154.6 km (96 miles) Runs between: Milngavie and Fort William Best hiked: south to north (for best elevation gain situation – I would never consider hiking Conic Hill north to south, but I considered it enjoyable south to north!) Months to hike it: April to October Most people hike it: May Biggest complaint: besides rain and wind, people dread the midges (which are tiny bitey swarming insects,) but you should also beware of ticks, so bring tweezers as well as repellent. There’s tons along Loch Lomond! Biggest danger: with rain and wind comes the danger of hypothermia, which should never be underestimated. Layer accordingly and be prepared, no matter how you walk the trail. Scotland loves its inclement weather and it laughs at the weatherman! Recommendations: At the very least, bring a map or a smartphone with a GPS app like ViewRanger. Map tiles for the GPS can be downloaded in advance, so you don’t need to worry about wifi. While the Way is generally well marked, there are patches where it isn’t, especially on the first day and I was grateful that I had something to refer to when I wasn’t sure where to go next. Research the trail through the great website, Walkhighlands.co.uk, which has a wonderful page entirely dedicated to the West Highland Way. Bring your trekking poles!

The West Highland Way - the purple starred marks are where I camped. Screenshot from ViewRanger. I did the trail in seven days, one day faster than most people despite my heavy pack.

An exhausted dork (i.e. me,) takes her victory bow at the finish line in Fort William. Note Trekking Pole; Trekking Pole was my bestest friend. Note the haggard expression - my body had just remembered that it was tired, and that parts of it hurt. A lot. And didn’t stop hurting for several days.

[hikertracks]

The Berg Lake Trail: There and Back (Plus Some)

(Originally posted here on July 4th 2017.)

Snowbound high elevations, from Roger’s Pass.

Winter seemed to last too long here in British Columbia this year; in fact, up high in the alpine, winter is still present in most places as I write this, on July 3rd, just over a week after my trip. Mount Revelstoke’s summit is still snowbound and across the Rockies, most high places remain enrobed in a blanket of white, so that one almost begins to wonder whether winter will ever end at altitude this year. Despite this, the world famous Berg Lake Trail (the ‘spiral road’ as it was known to its land’s first human inhabitants,) which graces the toes of the majestic monarch Mount Robson, the tallest peak in the Canadian Rockies, is somehow snow free. With three days off in this past late June and with my hopes of alpine hiking dying, I heard from a client that Robson might be lacking the white stuff. Rushing home after work that day, I managed to procure a reservation for a camp - but just for one night, and at the camp furthest from the trailhead, Robson Pass. It would be a flash trip - 23 kilometres in and 23 kilometres out within a period of 48 hours, for a total of 46 kilometres, more than a standard marathon, kilometres which I would hike completely by myself.

Me, in front of Emperor Falls. Note the mud on my right shin from slipping.

This sound tough? It actually pales in comparison to what some thruhikers do, hiking as far as 48.3 kilometres in a single day (that’s 30 miles!) That being done (reputedly) on a fairly gentle grade compared to the Berg Lake Trail’s almost constant vertical gain, I still felt like this would be a pretty good test of my future thruhiker mettle. While I still have no idea what it feels like to hike for days on end, I do feel that my endurance was proven and I learned a great deal from this trek about my gear. I gained confidence in hiking, surmounting obstacles which once spooked my younger self, half my life ago. I learned that I like hiking alone, that I love solitude, and that I dislike having other non-kin hikers near me, even in camp. (Of course, I also work a highly social retail job; put me in the wilderness by myself long enough so that I can fully decompress from that and perhaps I might be a much more social hiker.)

Going in, I felt concern that other hikers, and, indeed, parks staff, would take offense at my hiking alone because of my gender. Thankfully, I only experienced one moment of sexism, and it was incredibly minor; a concerned guy with quite bad English tried to convince me to let him hike with me at the trailhead. After pointing out exactly how far I was hiking, I gleefully ditched him and bounded onto the trail, whooping in excitement because my long awaited adventure had finally began. I’d been gearing up for this trip for years and while I hadn’t known that Robson would be my first test, I was ready for it and I had been dreaming about returning to the big mountain’s beautiful shadow.

The bounding didn’t last long; it had been a very long time since I had last backpacked and while I had been reading religiously about thruhiking as well as updating my gear for years, while I usually hike with quite a bit of weight for a day hiker (my inner Scout demands that I Be Prepared,) the heft of my new pack was still quite a new thing. I felt like a horse wearing a saddle for the first time and as such, it took me quite a long time to settle into my stride, something which I usually do when day hiking within a few hundred metres. (I have day hiked up to 26 kilometres easily before and I am absolutely capable of 30, although I haven’t tested this.) By the time that I reached Kinney Lake, the first camp, in good time, I had relaxed into my pack, although I was still fighting a battle between the chafing around my shoulders and the chafing around my hips.

Kinney Lake.

Here, I would make a crucial error, although I wouldn’t figure that out until the next day; to spare the pain of my hips, I adjusted my pack wrong and unknowingly threw most of my pack’s weight onto my shoulders. Human shoulders are not load bearing like human hips are; the next day, I corrected the problem and hiked easier, but for this first day, I frantically ate the contents of my hip belt pockets, thinking that that would help instead. (I also drank a lot, thinking that that would be a good idea to shave weight, until I realized that the three litres in my pack had to last me at least fifteen kilometres, so I began drinking more as I felt was needed.)

The first big climb to Whitehorn, a camp set in a small, beautiful river valley, feels grueling, but I rewarded myself with a nice long break beside the water. Here, I filtered water with my beloved Sawyer Mini for the first time, mixing up a bottle of electrolytes in the hopes of augmenting the water supply in my pack on the way up the long climb to Emperor Falls high above me. I also munched on more trail rations, and contemplated how my electrolytes should be stored somewhere more convenient, but somehow I never did do this; next hike!

The suspension bridge at Whitehorn. There used to be another suspension bridge on the other side of the camp by White Falls, but it got washed out too frequently, so the Park replaced it with something more sturdy.

Up, up and away! The climb to Emperor Falls, past first White Falls then Falls of the Pool, was long and draining, especially on a hot day with bluebird weather. (Weather which I was deeply thankful for!) Many switchbacks above White Falls, I found the bench where I had sat with my mom and dad as a fourteen year old kid, the last time that I had visited Mount Robson and teared up. Carrying on, at Falls of the Pool, a super nice but rather confused German tourist snapped my photo for me, succeeding after several attempts. (I suspect that he had never used a phone for photography before.) Climbing up onto a ridge, I caught my first glimpse of Emperor Falls and crossed over a ravine, then after about an hour, I finally found myself at the trail junction for visiting the falls. Here, I contemplated dropping my pack and slack packing to the falls, but I couldn’t bear to be seperated from my stuff, so I clambered down the trail.

Emperor falls, with Mount Robson behind it.

What a relief! The trail became mud as refreshingly freezing mist blasted my body. A friendly trio of girls came giggling down from the falls-side cornice and burst out laughing as my hat was blown off of my head. In rescuing it, I lost my balance and scrambled back onto my feet, a streak of mud freshly adorning my right shin. Adamantly proclaiming myself fine, I retreated from the falls and attempted to take a selfie from a distance and one of the girls took pity on me, taking my picture for me. With my entire front soaked with spray, I went back up the trail and continued my ascent to Emperor Falls’ Camp, which is undoubtedly the prettiest camp on the trail (although my camp, Robson Pass, definitely has the best view!) Finding the trail more level, I cruised on, crossing a scree slope before descending down onto an alluvial fan, from which I watched a couple of helicopters buzz around from their landing spot beside the lateral moraine which hides Mist Lake from the view of the trail. Finally reaching Berg Lake, I was delighted to see that there were indeed icebergs at large and I happily began the final stretch of my hike. Fortune was with me, and I spied a snowshoe hare in its summer coat as it hopped fearlessly out onto the trail for my admiration.

Berg Lake, complete with a berg. Mount Robson stands proud in the background!

Having run out of water, I paused to filter more, refilling my electrolyte bottle in the hopes of getting myself through to camp. Four rare harlequin ducks and two icebergs delighted me close to shore while I rested my sore body for the final push to Robson Pass. Regaining the trail, I finally trod through Berg Lake Camp and passed over Hargreaves Creek, soon finding myself at Rearguard Camp. The trail was flat and gentle, so I had no problem anymore with making distance, but I was still exhausted and very sore by the time I glided into Robson Pass camp. Discovering the site of the outhouse and finding it occupied, I dragged my painful body around the camp to find a tent pad to claim. My attempts to find one away from every other hiker proved in vain but I found one with an incredible vista of Mount Resplendant, Robson, and Snowbird Pass instead. A room with a view! People pay thousands for a place like that, elsewhere.

My view; Mount Resplendant in the foreground, with Robson behind. Snowbird Pass is offscreen to the left.

After pitching my tent and readying my bed, dropping most of my weight in my little shelter, I put my pack back on to hike 1.6 kilometres further, to Adolphus Lake, which I could not stand to miss after seeing it just a teensy bit past Robson Pass on the map. Also not feeling particularly enthused about having dinner in the camp shelter with all the other hikers, I brought my food bag and thus after crossing the border with Jasper National Park, I had dinner right on the tranquil shore of the pristine subalpine lake. This felt like a great reward after hiking for nine hours and my Mountain House Macaroni and Cheese Product dinner tasted sublime, even though I added way too much water (so it was more like cheesy soup.) I half filled my hydration reservoir, gobbled the last of my macaroni and watched the alpenglow light up the mountains, dreaming of hiking further, past what I could see. At the British Columbia-Alberta border, the Berg Lake Trail had become the North Boundary Trail, a 192 kilometre jaunt through Jasper’s backcountry which I yearn to conquer someday, when my gear is better figured.

Adolphus Lake, reflecting nearby peaks graced in alpenglow.

Returning back to camp, I sat by the stream and drew, watching the alpenglow continue its show until it finally faded. Slowly realizing that it had become hiker midnight, that all of my neighbours had gone to sleep, I sought out my own cozy den to seek my brief rest.

In typical fashion, I woke up obnoxiously early, at 6 AM (I seem to be entirely incapable of sleeping in while camping.) Striking camp, I grabbed my food bag, rationing chow fuel into my hip belt pockets for the hike out and gulped electrolytes again to revitalize my tired body. Practically inhaling my chocolate poptarts, I began my trek and quickly felt heartened by the time that I was making. Very quickly I was back at Emperor Falls and descending further, reaching Whitehorn speedily, then hiking back down to Kinney. At Kinney Lake, I took the flats route instead of the main trail to avoid some elevation gain/loss which I had experienced on the way up. Here, I also felt a flicker from my heart, so I drank more electrolytes and rested for a while beside the Robson River.

Those last few kilometres, although flat and downhill, were torturous. I wanted so badly to be done and back at my car, but I was so tired. My left knee had begun to hurt and my poor feet were feeling stone bruised, but I knew that the end of the trail was near. Here, with so many kilometres behind me and so little in front of me, I became incredibly intolerant of day hikers. The day before, on the way up, I had tolerated them passing me - with my heavy pack and the grade, there had been no way for me to outpace them, but now, with the trail going downhill, suddenly gravity was with me despite my flagging stamina.

A pair of shirtless male hikers came up behind me; catching sight of them in my peripheral vision, I saw red and bolted up the trail, stalwartly refusing to let them catch me. For a long time more, I had no sense of them again, having successfully left them in my dust, but soon the kilometres began to tell again and my speed faded. Suddenly, a mountain biker burst past me from behind, loudly and jubilantly praising me, “All the way from Robson Pass - atta girl!”

It was another hiker from Robson Pass, who had stayed with me there! (Mountain bikes are allowed up to Kinney Lake, where they must be chained up and stowed.) Energy filled me again; my smile came back and my toes bit back into the good trail dirt. Speed was again part of my name and I ate another kilometre until once again my energy began to flag. The trail curved, mocking me as it pretended to be almost done, then, low and behold, those same two damned shirtless day hikers abruptly almost passed me.

Ah, HELL NO. I bolted again - this time by running rather than going full steam ahead into my hiking gait - and suddenly it was there - the trailhead, no more than two hundred metres distant. I didn’t have the energy to keep running, but I managed a shambling hiking pace, desperate to stay ahead of my appointed enemies, the shirtless duo. In the last fifty metres, I found the strength to run and I loped raggedly across the finish line, the two posts which flanked the start of the trail to kiss the trailhead sign. DONE!

Limping the final few metres to my car, I drank yet more electrolytes and gratefully dropped my pack, exchanging my boots for my merciful sandals. After giving a trail report to a group of girls heading out on their own hike, I drove the single kilometre back to the Mount Robson Provincial Park visitor’s information centre where I reported my harlequin duck sightings. The guy manning the desk took one look at me and wryly said, “I’d offer you a chair but I don’t think you’d get back up.” He then referred me to the nearby cafe and I bought a victory shirt before following his advice, rewarding myself with a big cold waffle cone of icecream.

Then I drove to Jasper, and recuperated at Honeymoon Lake, which was gorgeous. The next day, I drove the entire Icefields Parkway, hiking the Valley of the Five Lakes, then Emerald Lake in Yoho National Park before driving back home. It was an exhausting but fabulous three days which I will remember proudly for a very long time!

Mount Robson Visitor’s Centre.

______________________________________________

Final Distance Hiked (in Robson): 49.2 km

Day Hike Distance: 9.9 km

Total Distance Hiked (with Valley of the Five Lakes & Emerald Lake): 59.1 km

Approximate Pack Weight: 36 lbs

Trek Location: Mount Robson Provincial Park, British Columbia, Canada.

Approximate Distance Driven: 1,266 km

Weather: Absolutely perfect bluebird weather with excellent trail conditions. Robson was never once hidden by cloud, which is saying something for a mountain which is tall enough to create its own weather patterns. (In 2004 when I went I only saw its peak once in four days. This time I saw its peak nearly constantly the whole trip. It was amazing and I was truly grateful for it!)

Favourite Piece of Gear: Mountain Hardwear Dynama Skirt (y’can’t imagine the ventilation and ease of living - pants and shorts are stupid now - plus the thing has wicked awesome pockets.)

Second Favourite Piece of Gear: Nuun Active Electrolytes (helped my exhausted body deal!)

Gear I Might Not Bring Next Time: pants, fleece (my Arc’teryx Atom LT makes bringing a fleece redundant,) and underwear (unless you are on your period or you have a big chest, underwear is not worth the extra chafing when backpacking. Go commando!)

Gear Which I Was Meh About: my Mountain Hardwear Ghost UL2 tent (loved the minute 2 pound weight, but the front entry was a bit annoying) and my Boreas Lost Coast 60 pack (but we’re still getting to know each other and my weight wasn’t dialed in.) My Oboz Bridger Mid Dry boots were about half a size too small by the end. Also decided that I’m not as fond as I thought I was of Backpacker’s Pantry Pad Thai, although it made an excellent breakfast on Day 1 for fueling me up all those switchbacks! (880 calories will do that.) In the future, I might just eat backpacker dinner chow for breakfast again; it seemed to work!

Gear That I Wished That I Had Had: Leukotape (I would have put it around my ankles to protect them from my boots and on my hips to protect those from my pack although they never actually blistered or anything,) and my right trekking pole. (I had to leave it at home because my physiotherapist told me the repetative movement would be bad for my injured but healing right wrist.)

Least Favourite Piece of Gear: Powerpond (never worked! Anybody want a powerpond? Might work with your phone.)

Stuff Which Surprised Me: My injured right arm handled the trail way better than my uninjured left arm. My right arm really wanted to handle the trekking pole, while my poor left arm got extremely sore and wanted nothing to do with it. On the hike out, I ended up shipping it in my pack and hiking without it; I prefer hiking downhill without brakes anyway. (Running is less painful than walking, y’know.) I was careful with my right arm, but in the end, it barely twinged the entire time, while my left arm was basically a crybaby. I believe there might be something funky going on with my collarbone on my left side, since my left arm didn’t like driving either and it kind of has a history of disliking pack straps. My mom has told me that I should visit a chiropractor for it; maybe this winter. (Still some big hikes left to go this summer!)

Stuff I Wish I’d Done Differently: Had I been able to, I would have booked a night at Emperor Falls on the way up. 23 kilometres up all that up felt like a bit much. I would have handled 16 kilometres that first day a lot better; 23 on the way down though was fine! (Once again, gravity was on my side!) I was actually offered a camp at Emperor on the way down at the visitor’s centre when I picked up my permit, but that sounded lame, and I was right. I also would have enjoyed another night at Robson Pass and going later in the season so that I could have day hiked to Snowbird Pass.

(And of course, Skydog came! He got a lot of really funny comments like “did he whine a lot last night?” “did he bark much?” and he really kept me company. When you’re hiking alone, you need something to hug, or at least, I do.)

All in all, a fabulous hike, and I am very proud of myself! Good job, Rosy!

[hikertracks]

Welcome to Hikertracks!

I really hope that you enjoy what I am going to post here; the plan is to try to do a post a week to start and while Hikertracks is primarily a hiking blog, I’m certain that my art will occasionally intrude, but only in a way which is related to this place. Look forward to trip accounts, adventures and gear reviews - this is Hikertracks, the account of a crazy Canadian solo female short distance thruhiker exploring the wild (and the world.) In any case, thank you for reading, I greatly appreciate it!