Testing a marriage while exploring the Canadian Rockies
I move the map closer to my face as if that will help us figure out where we are, and look at Sam. “Should we just turn back?”
We’re in the town of Coleman in Alberta, Canada. It feels as if we are on our 100th U-turn in search of the road to York Creek, a road that will lead us to an airplane crash high up in the Canadian Rockies. I fear we might start scaring the neighbors of this sleepy town as we creep down another side street. We take a final bet on a logging road. Sure enough, it leads us to an open clearing with numerous trailheads that beg for off-roading. As if we are in a fun house, we scan our options, wondering which door will lead to the treasure.
A quad zips by, carrying a heavy-set young man. I wave him down and he pulls up with a flushed, cherry-colored face that looks as if it’s been in the sun for a while. I never knew there was such thing as a redneck Canadian accent but I’m delighted by it. We have found our backcountry expert and he points the way to the crash site. He gives our 100 Series Land Cruiser one of those slow, judgy, once-overs that teenage girls know so well. The top-down, down-up, sassy side-eye. “You got a winch on that, eh?” We sure do and I take the driver’s seat to show these Canadians a thing or two about second-guessing a woman’s off-road-capable vehicle. With Sam in the navigator seat for once, we set off on our path and I quickly discover how incredibly effective off-roading is for testing a marriage.
It turns out that off-roading can teach a person a lot about communication. A few verbal snaps, river crossings, and Stop yelling at me!s later we make it to the top of the mountain. A few quads had reached the site just before us, and their pilots huddle together with dirt-plastered faces, watching us as though we have just shifted our flying saucer into park. A few of the men approach Sam to ask how we managed to make the challenging journey in such a large vehicle. I make my way to the crash site. Nestled within a patch of trees and brush I spot the gleaming metal body. I wasn’t expecting something quite so beautiful or evocative and it catches me off guard. The plane is a DC-3 Dakota that crashed in 1946. It carried Royal Canadian Air Force servicemen who were flying in from Nova Scotia. All seven passengers died on site. There are no velvet ropes or security guards in navy blazers to keep me from coming near. It just lies there, hidden and available to the few who journey to see it. Visitors have proclaimed their presence by carving names and initials into the shining skin. I wonder if the travelers before me knew what they were doing, if they were aware they were scribbling life all over this sacred coffin. Wildflowers bloom about the plane. I feel a haunting sensation crawl up my spine. Carpe diem comes to mind and I choke on a lump of life meaning in my throat. We could have turned back, I think to myself. We could have given up the search.
After my mini-existential breakdown/breakthrough, we turn back and continue toward Banff National Park. When we roll into the park, Sam and I are completely stunned. We’re so accustomed to the parks in the United States where ranger stations are the fanciest facilities they have. Banff is another animal entirely. Were it not for the mountains surrounding us, I would have completely forgotten where we are. Lodges, restaurants, pubs, boutiques, and gift shops line the main drive of the park’s city center. My mouth gapes as we stop at a red light and the many tourists cross in front of us, clad in North Face, their eyes beaming. It is as if we have just arrived to the Disney Land of national parks. Sam and I have been in camp mode proper so this kind of civilization sparks an excitement in me that I can’t mask. I press my hands against the glass like the Little Match Girl. I want to join these clean, showered people. I imagine myself sipping on a cold beer in a pub and throwing my head back in carefree laughter and comfort. I look at Sam with my best puppy-dog face. “Do we have to go straight to the tent?” He is not enthused. In fact, he is revolted by this display of luxury in the middle of such magnificent nature. I would agree but we just passed a place that serves elk poutine, a delicacy that will probably clog your arteries if eaten regularly. I have found Sam’s Achilles heel — food. We park and I rummage through my duffel bag in the back seat in search of jeans and a decent looking shirt. I roll on an extra few coats of deodorant, fluff my hair, and pop out of the car feeling like Cinderella. One elk poutine and elk pizza later we take our full bellies back to the car and begin our search for a campsite. We manage to find an open spot in an RV camping area and call it an evening.
In the morning, we are awakened by a ranger standing outside our canvas home. She lets us know that we’re not supposed to tent camp here because of the bears. The rain starts to hit and we get in gear to pack up the rooftop tent. We sprint around the truck in what turns out to be the pouring rain. Finishing in record time, we recompose ourselves in the car with the heater on. The day is rainy and as it turns out, there’s not much to do in Banff on a rainy day. We go to one of the museums back in town, which turns out to be more like a taxidermy emporium. The rain begins to let up and we establish our new plan: Lake Louise. We make our way across the park and take advantage of the brief moment of kindness from the sky to do some canoeing. Lake Louise is known for its stunning beauty and the picturesque red canoes that regularly glide along its surface. We decide to take our dog, Red, with us on our aquatic adventure. We paddle across the lake and Red tries to eat Sam’s oar as it flies out of the water before it vanishes again beneath the turquoise surface. I’m amazed at how well this dog has done. Onlookers from neighboring canoes turn, and some take photos of our precious cargo. I’m not sure if they’re smitten by our little one or by our very American commitment to our fur child. We reach shore once again, and just in time. It’s growing chilly and the dark clouds appear to be losing their mercifulness. Red hops out of the boat with ease and proceeds to squat and pee on the deck in front of a long line of onlookers. We are horrified. The canoe people are amazingly kind about the large puddle of humiliation and clean it for us. We thank them sheepishly before making a quick escape.
The cold is reaching our bones. We proceed to the Fairmont Chateau Hotel for warmth and shelter. It was built by the Canadian Pacific Railway in 1890 and is located right at the edge of Lake Louise. Originally envisioned as “a hotel for outdoor adventurer and alpinist,” it is as impressive as it sounds. We walk in and spot a sitting area with windows to the ceiling, framing a perfect view of the lake. It invites you to curl up, sip on hot tea, and gaze out of it. We do just that and order some jasmine tea and a light spread to munch on. For a moment, we almost forget that we are at a park again. Our enjoyment in this moment deviates greatly from our previous camping experiences. We talk about our thoughts on privilege and finding a balance between our beloved primitive camping and our enjoyment of some of the finer, more worldly things. This is a new type of camping experience for us and we try not to lose ourselves in it one way or the other, something that is tempting at a place like Banff. With our bellies full, we head back to the center of the park to take the gondola ride, a “must-see” attraction. “Done it 12 times,” said the mother and daughter behind us in the canoeing line. We are happy to have taken their advice as we indulge in the views from the summit of Sulphur Mountain. From the highest point of the park at 7,486 feet, you can see the Canadian Rockies in their full glory. Red’s nose catches the scent of mountain sheep and breaks our nature trance as she proceeds to let everyone know how much she wants to eat them. Although Banff can be a challenge to enjoy on a rainy day, we are incredibly pleased by all we managed to accomplish.
We make the best of our remaining time at Banff and the surrounding area. Johnston Canyon is well worth the visit with powerful waterfalls that break into tones of green and roaring white. Moraine Lake is absolutely stunning in every way. We can confirm that tales of the emerald water are absolutely true. We walk by Moraine Lake’s edge, and Red enthusiastically laps up the jewel-toned water one tongue-full at a time. I hope she’s keeping an inventory of what she’s tried and how it compares so she can share her tales with her dog park friends. We continue north toward Jasper, driving along the Icefields Parkway. It’s a drive that can take as many hours as you’d like, with numerous stops for lakes, glaciers, and trailheads along the way. This area of North America is so stunning we are dizzied by the sheer quantity of inspiring nature. Side by side, we take a gander at Bow Lake, Bow Glacier, and Crowfoot Glacier, which has had one of its three “toes” melt off. Medicine Lake is especially interesting, as it likes to disappear once a year like a magic trick. It confused scientists and onlookers for years until it was discovered that Medicine Lake holds water from Maligne River. During the summer months, run-off temporarily fills the lake before it drains beneath the surface again. Peyto Lake stands in a class of its own with a blue so spectacular, it appears to glow and radiate in the most unbelievable way.
We make a final stop at Athabasca Glacier where there appears to be a sign for an information booth. We step into the building and are completely dumbfounded. Like an international airport, visitors from all over the world are bustling about. We don’t find an information booth but we find advertisements everywhere for trips out on the glacier in massive ice vehicles. We’ve reached the more depressing portion of this amusement park, as folks shuffle about buying cheap souvenirs and tickets to see the glacier. A blond-haired boy in a poster stares back at me with blue eyes. He looks really, really happy. Sam is really, really about to barf now. We make a swift run for it, after finding that you can hike to the glacier instead. We manage to walk our way up and watch some of the fresh water trickle its way down. Our hike looks a little less glamorous than what the posters promised. The neighboring mountains have spread some of their dirt on the lower portion of the glacier, leaving a light layer of brown atop its pristine white. What is truly sad is that there is no argument that the glaciers are receding. This dizzying beauty is disappearing right through our fingertips. I think about the blue-eyed boy in the poster and wonder if he mentioned that in the ad. We head back toward the Land Cruiser and I’m suddenly looking forward to my tent tonight.
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