I set off from Calgary with nervous anticipation growing in the pit of my stomach, in short, nothing out of the ordinary. Months before, I’d waited for hours online and then navigated the painfully slow Parks Reservation website on opening day, only to discover that the trip I’d been hoping to take was fully booked all summer long. The earliest I would be able to go was the end of September, far too cold for my blood, but after waiting for 8 hours just to log on, and being too late to even find a spot at all in the years prior, I forged ahead and managed to book 3 consecutive nights. I wasn’t going to let that campsite reservation slip away, I would just have to hope for good weather and splurge on some warmer sweaters.

Before: Look how full of hope I am
 

Mercifully, by the time September rolled around the weather forecast looked incredible, and I traded concrete for a vast landscape in sepia toned glory, the greens of summer traded for autumn hues. I took one last look at the forecast, steeled myself for the trek ahead and set out on the trail. My backpack, like an old friend that can bring out the very best and worst parts of oneself, was packed to the limit.  I’d traded my spare camera for a bit of extra clothing space, but I couldn’t bear to leave the extra heavy telephoto lens at home. It would have been worth an extra sweater or two had I left it behind, but I have my priorities.

Within the first 20 minutes of climbing up the incessant switchbacks, I had time to dwell upon and subsequently regret every life’s decision I had made up until that point, starting with my decision to become a photographer. I should have just been a poet, I grumbled. I could pack 500 notebooks and pens and still be carrying less weight around than the damn camera.

As I slowly griped my way up the mountain, every glance I took behind me through the trees and underbrush spurred me forward as my truck became a dot in the distance and the ancient glacial valley began to reveal its icy grandeur. Eventually, after a few hundred metres of vertical elevation, I dug my camera out of it’s satchel and marveled at the view through my lens. I came around to the idea of hiking the Iceline trail with a ridiculously heavy pack, if a photo is worth a thousand words, I would have needed too many notebooks to fully encapsulate the vista in poetry. I decided the camera was the more succinct and lightweight way to go after all.

Once I reached the alpine and the bulk of the uphill was out of the way, I was able to catch my breath a little and fall into a steady rhythm. My life choices looking a little less regrettable after all.  The hours and miles passed by trundling up and over moraines, politely nodding at fellow hikers, constantly picking away at the stash of nuts and chocolate and jerky I'd tucked into a conveniently located pocket and frequently picking my jaw off the dusty rock strewn trail any time I looked around.  An absolute sucker for a good view, I spent a little too much time lounging next to a beautiful little tarn and reached for the camera a few too many times.  By the time the day was fading I still hadn't reached the days destination. Ooops.

As I began my descent out of the alpine, the fellow hikers had all but disappeared, all that was left of my trail mix was a bag of crumbs and I narrowed my focus from the sweeping vistas to the trail ahead.  The campground still hadn't materialized into view, and I was beginning to mildly question my route-finding abilities. Surely, I should have arrived by now, I thought, as I dug my map out to verify I was on the right track time and again.  The trail wasn't really that difficult to follow, at least I didn't think so, I just hadn't expected it to take me quite so long.  I figured I was probably still on the right track and persisted further into the trees.  By dinner time, the trail spat me out into a meadow which housed a back country hut, the peaceful surroundings interrupted by hikers who had the opportunity to trade camping gear for bottles of wine in their packs. I was happy to finally have confirmation that I was on the right trail, mostly I was happy that the campground was still another kilometre away so I wouldn't have to listen to them.

After the usual cold and sleepless night, I dragged myself out of my tent, fired up the camp stove to make myself a cup of coffee and then creek hopped my way over to a little waterfall located near the campground. I wore my oversized, fluorescent orange poncho and carried a small unlidded coffee mug in one hand.  Ideal lounge about accessories, less so for bushwhacking at five o'clock in the morning. At least I looked absolutely ridiculous doing it.

 I had an idea in mind of a photo of the distant mountain peak in a valley above the campground in awash in morning light, the little creek and waterfall gently leading out of the frame.  The reality, however, was much less picturesque.  The trail surrounding the vantage points were not great, narrow, cliffed out, overgrown.  I slipped and stumbled through the brush, my poncho caught every second branch and if the poncho didn't catch then the tripod legs were getting in the way instead.  Evidently not a lot of photographers in this neck of the woods to break trail and make things easy for me.   I eventually found myself perched on a narrow cliff over the canyon, tripod and camera in one hand, coffee mug in the other. It seemed good in theory, but it did not take long to figure out that the photos and atmosphere just weren't going to line up with what I had in my head.  I believe the technical term for this is called "a total bummer dude"

Not exactly what I had in mind

Oh well, I had miles to make on my way to my next camp and so I at least had an early start. The majority of my hike would be easy, downhill. Gravity is usually pretty reasonable to deal with when you don't have to work against it. I had opted to do the trail clockwise so the majority of the effort required would be done on day one and the rest of the days would be easy little jaunts between campgrounds.  That's using the old noggin.

Once again, I shouldered my backpack and set out on the trail. It was a beautiful warm day out and I happily trod down the trail alongside a rushing little creek for some time.  Nodding politely at my fellow hikers, snacking on another day's ration of goodies.  I stopped at a little bridge and happily snapped a few photos. It was a good day. I was in a good mood.

I had opted to take a portion of trail that was less commonly used for a certain leg of the day's journey. The junction was well marked on the main trail, though it did have a warning that it was a decommissioned trail. Still, I was eager to take the more direct route to the day’s destination, and it would mean that I would not see any portion of trail twice in the overall loop I was doing over the course of those few days.  Besides, I was relatively confident with my ability to find my way and being on a quieter trail would be nice, my neck was getting sore from all the polite nods. If I was looking for solitude I should have known better than to book this trip on a weekend when the trail was busiest. 

I walked past the warning sign about the decommissioned trail hell bent on taking the direct route and pointed my nose in the air at my fellow hikers opting for the easy path. 

Well, that was a stupid choice to make.

Within mere metres of leaving the main trail, I encountered the first fallen tree. Up and over I went, gigantic backpack and all.  The occasional fallen tree, no problem, but within steps I found myself on my knees crawling under a log that was too tall to hop. Over and under and under and over and over and under and under and over and...  Surely this trail will improve, it can't be like this the entire way, right? So, I persisted. It was like that the entire way. My 65 pound backpack suddenly the accessory in a military style training excercise, except I am a moderately out of shape forest shambling troll. Not even remotely similar to a fit soldier.

If it wasn't logs, it was a sea of willows to wade through, if it wasn't a sea of willows and logs it was a boulder field to navigate. If it wasn't a sea of willows and logs or boulder fields, it was tall grasses or soggy boot destroying marshes or berry bushes impeding movement and visibility.  Am I on the trail? Is this part of the trail? Oh yes here's a bare section, gee there's a lot of berries around here, hope I don’t run into a grizzly. I haven't seen anyone in hours. Should I have done this? I wonder if I will find my way. If I don’t find my way I wonder if anyone will find me. Should I have done this? Wow, I still haven't seen anyone in hours. Oh look, another fucking log to crawl over. Maybe I should turn back. No, don't turn back now surely we're close to the end.

Dear reader: I was not close to the end.

By the time I finally popped out of that section of trail I was beat. Scraped up. Exhausted. A little unnerved. I was never in any real danger though it felt like maybe my choices hadn't been ideal and a misstep could have landed me in a not so good situation.  The fact that there is absolutely no photographic evidence whether cell phone or otherwise of this leg of the journey should be evidence enough that I was having a miserable time.
My good mood from earlier in the day had disintegrated. I passed by the spectacular Twin Falls, a spot that I had been looking forward to seeing for years. I didn't even give it a second glance.  I didn't reach for the camera. I didn't scope out the area for my planned sunrise photos the next morning. I just walked right past toward next camp in a mood and a half.  I reached the campground not long after and melted into a salty grumpy little puddle.

If ever you look at a map, note a trail that's decommissioned but might be fun to take. It's not fun at all.

At camp, once I'd settled a bit, I puttered around and wandered up a random trail I stumbled across, but I didn't stay out for long.  My mood lifted somewhat, and I did manage to break out the camera for a little bit.  I made a mental note to some day spend a little more time wandering up this particular valley, but my sense of adventure was depleted for the day and all I wanted to do was go to bed. 

The next morning, I woke to my alarms ringing, rousing me out of bed to hike back up to the nice pretty waterfall for sunrise photos.   The falls, about a kilometre above camp, were a good part of the reason I'd booked the trip in the first place, but I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. All that physical effort, the time spent, the money spent on campgrounds and gear hung over me when I opted to shut off the alarm and close my eyes. The guilt and shame from setting out a goal for myself and then actively choosing not to do anything in order to achieve it was a fresh wound when I finally crawled out of my tent.  It was drizzling, a perfectly grey day to match my perfectly grey mood. I skipped breakfast. Packed my things and set out on the trail again. I spent my hike berating myself over my lack of resolve. Fortunately, it was a short and easy hike that day and my travels lead me to one of my favourite little campgrounds to stay in with the cheerful Laughing Falls visible from every campsite.   The sun had come out and a bad mood doesn't stand much chance when you find yourself perched on a rock next to a mountain waterfall.  I couldn't be mad at myself forever. .

After hanging up the contents of my backpack to dry in the sun, I spent the remainder of the day attempting to redeem myself as a photographer and mucked about the area, camera in hand.By the end of the day I'd gathered a handful of photos and I had a dry sleeping bag to curl into. Pretty successful day if you ask me.

 The opportunity to crawl out of your tent in view of the photographic objective was a real treat the next morning and a welcome change from the day before.   Naturally, the sunrise light and weather didn't really cooperate that much, but at least I had bothered to show up this time. It wasn't long before the rain sent me packing and I crammed my wet gear into my backpack and set out for civilisation.  The rain did me no favours and I swear my backpack was 20 pounds heavier than when I'd started. I shuffled and grimaced under the weight; the hike out was one of the shortest, flattest, easiest hikes out from a back country campground I could think of. Second only to maybe the short, sweet Elbow Lake in Kananaskis. Still, I found myself asking "are we there yet" a dozen times.  By the time I reached pavement I half considered dropping my heavy backpack and jogging ahead to grab the truck backpack free, but then the loop wouldn't have been officially completed as a backpacking trip. That's cheating, I thought. So, I plodded alongside the busy road, resisted sticking my thumb out to hitchike a mere 500 metres and managed to reach my parking spot where I was free to melt into a puddle of rainwater and relief.

After:

It would be 3 years before I made it back to Twin Falls, and another year after that before I'd get there for sunrise. Having learned my lesson, I took the well traveled trails each time, and enjoyed myself much more.
 

Twin Falls at Sunrise