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Peyto Lake is known as first of dozens of postcard-photo worthy stops along the Icefields Parkway, which runs between the Canadian towns of Banff and Jasper.
The Icefields Parkway, is touted as one of the world's most scenic drives, drawing droves of tourists annually.
The 12 mountain peaks that surround Moraine Lake near Lake Louise, Alberta, feed it with glacial melt that creates a deep blue hue |
By ROB DAVIS
For THE FREE LANCE-STAR
BANFF, ALBERTA--Six months ago, I did not know this place existed.
I couldn't have differentiated among Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba on a map. Here in Canada, I imagined igloos, polar bears, roads made of ice.
Now I am on a gospellike mission, to spread three words: Go to Banff.
What I've discovered here is wholly different from my stereotyped, Saturday-morning cartoon impression of Canada.
Though I've not visited Saskatchewan or Manitoba, I've met residents of those provinces who've assured me I was misled. My now-tamed imagination conjures wheat-colored pictures of Kansas and Nebraska--only colder in winter.
But Alberta and British Columbia to the west are not known to travelers for agricultural production so much as for their geography. They are home to the Canadian Rockies, and in winter, some of the best skiing in North America.
The Rockies beckoned. Hike me, they said. Mountain bike me, they whispered. Raft the river rapids, they teased.
Like a starving man at a smorgasbord, I wanted to taste everything--but only had time for a fraction.
I hiked nearly 30 miles in a week, and still felt I hadn't done justice to the choices the mountains offered.
But hiking treated me to some of the most stunning vistas I've ever seen. A 12-mile hike in Kootenay National Park, about an hour west of Banff, afforded me views of snow-capped peaks wrapped in traces of late-day haze--images now seared in my mind's eye.
The trek up was arduous--a 3,000-foot climb is not a hiker's friend--but at the summit, I felt like an explorer, as if I were the first human to set foot there. I hadn't seen another person in hours. The only sounds I heard came from the solace of nature's companionship and the sound of my hiking boots crunching across once-frozen tundra.
At the peak, four elk scurried away as I drew close. Farther away, 30 bighorn sheep watched me walk toward them, then retreated across a craggy, rock-covered mountainside, their hoofs echoing like wind chimes, as they danced along the shifting rocks.
I've spent a week in the Rockies, though I'd only planned to stay a couple of days. The allure was too much. Two days became three, three became four, four became seven. I've been firmly lodged in the mountain's grasp.
Adventure has not been limited to hiking trails. I've spent three nights at the Cross River Cabins, just outside Kootenay National Park. Here, the adventure lay on the gravelly road to the cabins.
My Volvo is dirtier, I believe, than any car ever has been before. I jostled down this road no faster than 25 mph, and took care to swerve out of the way when logging trucks steamrolled through.
They kicked up so much dust the trees were covered in a ghostly gray coat. Rays of sunlight that sneaked into the dust clouds left me partially blinded--and totally in awe.
I drove the road once on the way in and swore I'd not drive it again until I left.
That idea lasted less than 24 hours. I left once in search of a Diet Coke. Another time I went on a day hike.
And so I would jostle west to the paved road, heave a sigh of relief at driving on smooth-as-silk asphalt, achieve my task, then jostle back.
Life at the cabins was as peaceful and simplified as human existence gets.
The water in the bathroom came straight from a nearby creek; the lights were solar powered. The refrigerators were propane-fueled.
I turned on a light perhaps 10 times in four days. At night, I made a small fire to fend off the evening chill.
Back in Banff, I've been wowed by the heavy traffic. It's a sign I've lost touch with reality, after three weeks out west.
Banff traffic, at its busiest, is perhaps as bad as Sunday morning traffic on State Route 3 near Central Park.
But I have drunk the tonic of Montana--Big Sky country--and Canada as if it were a salve for my soul.
In the Canadian Rockies, I discovered the emerald-colored hue of Lake Louise, the too-rich blue of Moraine Lake, the eerie grayish blue-green of Peyto Lake.
Three months ago, I could not have imagined water the color of these glacially fed lakes.
Three months ago, I did not know such richness existed.
