The alarm clock rang and my arm stretched out from under the covers to find it, I fumbled around in the dark and instinctively hit the snooze button.  Not that another ten minutes of lying in bed, wide awake, would do much for me, but the promise of at least a ten minute cat nap was too tempting. Despite crawling into bed at 8pm the night before, I hadn't managed to get a wink of sleep. Instead, I closed my eyes and let scenes of "What can go wrong when hiking alone in the dark" flash across my eyelids while I  waited for my 1:30 alarm. Alas, the apprehension of going solo night time hiking wasn't going to hold me back. Not this time.

The first attempt I had made the summer before would have been successful had I not hesitated in the parking lot of Moraine Lake for far too long.  Arriving at the trail head by 3 am gave me plenty of time to reach my goal before dawn and I had confidently donned my hiking boots and stepped out in to the cool mountain air before seizing with fear. I paced in the parking lot for nearly an hour, weighing my options between staying at the relatively benign Moraine Lake shore and going to a far more interesting but risky Minnestimma Lake nearly five kilometres away.  It wasn't until the parking lot started filling up with photographers headed towards the famed rock pile, that I managed to step in to the dark forest, determined to not take the same photograph as the rest of the crowd.  I had hesitated for too long.

As the sky began to lighten, I reached a scenic clearing along the trail and I had to make a choice. I could either press on, not knowing how far I had to go before reaching the lake, or stay in a clearing which at least afforded me some views.  If I pressed on, I ran the risk of not being able to see anything when the mountains began to glow, and so I opted to stay put.  The decision was a wise one, as the early morning light burst through the clouds shortly after I had set up my camera. Soon, the light dulled and I, having run out of the courage and will power to see what was around the next corner, scurried back down the trail towards home. It wasn't until months later, when a girl friend and I had made the trek up Paradise valley, over Sentinel Pass and down to Moraine Lake, that I saw just how close  I had been to reaching the lakes before dawn.  I vowed that next summer I would make it.

My headlights shone in to the numerous cars in the parking lot, their windows white with condensation from the occupants sleeping inside.  "I wasn't aware we were allowed to camp out in the parking lot now" I thought, as I killed the engine and moved my seat back so I could pull on my boots.  The rain pelted my windshield and I wiggled in to my rain suit before stepping outside and turning on my headlamp, illuminating the dizzying mist falling from the sky. I left the sleeping beauties behind and strode past the lodge and up the trail, reaching the first switch back with ease, and then promptly stopped.  "This is stupid" I muttered in to the darkness, it's raining, it's dark, it's scary, will it even be worth the effort? I turned on my heel and ambled back toward the parking lot.  Instead, I set my sights on the near by Consolation Lake, a much closer and lower elevation destination. If I was too cold and wet, at least the hike back to the warmth of my truck would be far shorter.

I strode past the lodge again, past the sleeping beauties in the parking lot and up the trail, reaching the junction to Consolation Lake with ease.  I picked my way down a small hill and in no time, reached a small boulder field and then promptly lost the trail in the dark. It might have been helpful if I had done this hike even once before in my lifetime, but I had not, and I turned on my heel and headed back toward the parking lot again. 

Now, I was getting annoyed at myself, and set myself towards the original goal for the morning.  I strode past the sleeping beauties in the parking lot, past the lodge and up the trail in the other direction again and that's where I lost my nerve altogether.  With rain falling gently down on me, I stood heartbroken on the trail in the dark, cursing my lack of resolve. Through the trees, I could see headlamps beaming from the sleeping beauties, they had woken up and were beginning their assault of the famed rock pile on the shore of Moraine Lake.  None of them ventured toward me. Determined not to take the same photograph as the rest of the crowd, I wandered along the shoreline away from the crowd, but never out of sight, before settling in for sunrise. It was better than nothing, still I left feeling dejected, and vowed that next time I would make it.

Despite carefully calculating the time I would need to reach my goal before dawn, I was running late. I had hit the snooze button a few too many times in an effort to stave off reality ten minutes at a time.  As I started on the trail for the third time, the sting of my previous attempt was still fresh in my mind and I had no intention of failing again. Not this time. I paused briefly at the information board to make sure it wasn't mandatory to hike in a group of four, and then began picking my way up the switchbacks at nearly double my regular pace.  As I made my way up the trail in the dark, a rustling noise in the brush made my heart flutter from adrenaline.  Fortunately, the only pair of eyes glowing in the light of my headlamp were from a small animal,  and I muttered "it's only a marten" to calm myself.  It wasn't long before I surpassed the turn around points from my previous attempts, and a pink glow formed on the horizon. I was nearly running through the alpine meadow, my heavy pack laden with camera gear jostling on my back.

Across the valley, a pair of lights appeared on the glacier of Mt. Fay and I watched fascinated as the lights moved up the glacier towards the summit before disappearing from view.  "Crazy bastards" I thought as I continued up the trail and the lakes came in to view.  I settled in to a small patch of gravel near the shore and set up my camera just as the sun began to peer through the clouds. 

I turned the switch of my camera on - nothing happened, and my stomach sank. I reached in to my bag and grabbed a back up battery and popped it in to the camera. I turned the switch, again, nothing happened and panic began to rise in to my chest.  I blew on the battery like an old Nintendo cartridge, but again, nothing.  "At least I made it" I thought, as I snapped a photo with my phone and held back tears.  Finally, I jammed the battery in with force to make the connections and the camera turned on. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned my attention to the view before me, raising my arms up in celebration and complete awe.

Soon, a pair of hikers appeared, and we excitedly marvelled at the light,"It's a hell of a way to start the day!" my grin stretched ear to ear as I set up a composition. Not long after the hikers left, a pair of photographers came to share the view and we exchanged elated high fives as the light danced around us.  Though the camera continued to threaten to fail, I managed to snap a few photos and my heart soared at having finally reached my goal. The marvellous light certainly didn't harm my good mood either. Setting the camera aside for a moment, I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down to soak in as much of the scene as I could until the weather changed and the views were replaced by a late summer snow storm. Finally, I became too cold to stay any longer, and I packed my bag and left the dreamy scene to return to reality. On my way down the trail, I vowed to make it to this magical place more often.

I hadn’t made it out of view of the parking lot before I began to question my decision to carry a pack nearly half my body weight over a mountain pass. How was I ever going to make it? More importantly, how would I make it home again?  “It’s a mental challenge more than a physical one” I told myself, and took another feeble step.

The weight of the pack sent razor blades across my back, after a hundred steps I’d had enough, I plopped to the ground and shimmied out of its grip. The contents of the bag were spilled along the trail and I tried to remember every internet article I had ever read about backpacks and how to pack them.  It turns out, I had unknowingly become well read in the art of packing a backpack for a trip, I’d just never done it in real life.  Once I had reorganized and balanced the weight of the gear, I sat on the trail again and shimmied back into the shoulder straps. In the parking lot I had put the pack on without issue, but I had used the tailgate of my pick-up truck and put it on while standing.  Here on the trail, figuring out how to stand up was quickly becoming a bit of a conundrum.

60 pounds of cameras and cheese

The nearby helicopter pad was busy shuttling Assiniboine bound passengers and they buzzed overhead while I flailed around helplessly on the trail like a turtle flipped onto its shell.  I could imagine the laughter from the comfortable passengers ascending over the trail above me, their conversations turning to the days ahead of them as my flailing arms and legs became mere  dots on the landscape. I grimaced at my awkward performance as I worked on gaining enough momentum to roll over on to my stomach. Finally, I rolled over, my knees ground in to the gravel with the weight now on top of me and I reached for my hiking poles to begin the mile long crawl to a standing position.  The pack felt slightly better, though the redistribution hadn’t made it any less heavy. I looked at the trail behind me, I looked longingly at my truck sitting in the parking lot.  I still had the opportunity to give up, maybe check in to a nearby hotel so nobody would know I had given up so quickly. I could claim my camera batteries weren’t charged when I came home in a few days without photos.  Instead, I took another step West, followed by many more steps.

The promise of a break at Watridge Lake kept me moving forward for the first few kilometres, but when the lake passed by on the trail I didn’t stop. Instead, I decided I would stop at the next creek crossing –whenever that might be, despite nearly every part of me screaming in protest.  I began to descend a very long hill as panic set in with the realization that what goes down, must go up again. What if I couldn’t make it back up this hill again in a few days? A future problem, I rationalized, as a refreshing creek came in to view. Somehow, I had managed to make it to the half way point of the day’s hike before taking a rest, and I celebrated with the delicious sandwich I had been promising myself since buying the ingredients a week before.

Dad's specialty sandwich and a view- this is the life

Refreshed, I waited for the last of the hikers in the area to move out of sight before I clumsily donned the pack again, and began the second leg of the day. The sun beat down on me mercilessly and I lost any hope I still had left of smelling nice on this trip. After hours of trudging along, I replaced my bear call with “Are we there yet?” and I yelled into the forest. The answer was a resounding silence which I took to mean “No”
Fatigue had set in and I began to will myself forward in mere 100 pace increments until I finally reached the day’s destination at Marvel Lake.  The half way point to Assiniboine – how people do the hike in a day I’ll probably never know, half way was more than enough for day one.

After modelling inefficiency setting up camp and feeding myself while increasing the day’s kilometre total by another 10, I was finally where I wanted to be. Plunked down on a lake shore with a camera.
The haze from nearby forest fires reduced the wilderness before me in to their most basic geometric shapes. The silence of the area, magnified by the lack of visual definition, was only broken by an occasional jumping fish.  Even the mosquitoes kept mostly to themselves, the whine of their wings beating against the thick smoky air was punctuated by the bees hovering among the reeds at my feet. A lot of bees. “Odd” I thought, but quickly turned attention back to my camera. In the distance, a single loon swam across the horizon, breaking the mirror like reflection and letting out a haunting cry. I hear you loon, I hope you find what you’re looking for. Day one was officially behind me and I made the last ascent of the day and crawled into my sleeping bag.

Smoke & Mirrors

In a mood, I cancelled my sunrise photos in lieu of an early start.  The night had been cold, despite wearing a base layer, down jacket, rain suit and toque inside my -7 sleeping bag I had shivered all night. I had barely slept, and I wanted nothing more than to be tucked in to bed in a nice cozy hut.  The thought of a nap spurred me out of bed and onto the trail ahead of schedule for the day’s slog over the Assiniboine Pass.  I grumbled back on to the main trail, a few years too old to be stomping my feet and pouting. It wasn’t long before I passed by the National Park Wardens Cabin nestled in the trees alongside Bryant Creek. The view from the historic structure was marvelous in the early morning light, and I delayed my early start and fished my camera out of the pack.  Maybe this hiking business wasn’t so bad after all, and my mood lifted as I meandered around with the camera. 

The camera had been a nice momentary distraction, but the amount of ground I had to cover that day weighed heavily in my mind, and I wrestled into the pack once again.  I moved rather quickly along the valley bottom in the cool morning air and I congratulated myself for my efficiency – until another scene caught my eye and my forward progress was halted in favour of the camera yet again.  At this rate, I’ll fill my cards up before I even get to Assiniboine. It was tempting to turn on my heel and head home, but I knew the best was yet to come. 

Early in the day, I had met two groups of hikers going the opposite direction, but that was the only sign of humanity in this wild valley.  I reached the junction between the horse and hiker trail over the pass, I had read that the hiker’s trail would be closed to allow the bear’s access to the bountiful amount of berries, but there was nothing indicating the closure.  I questioned whether I was on the right trail and dug my map and trail descriptions out of my bag. I studied the pair of trails before me, and after careful deliberation, I concluded that I wasn’t 100% sure where I was but that the trail to the left was probably good enough, and set off. If it turned out to be the wrong trail, I could always turn around and try again and since I was hiking alone, nobody would have to know that I’d made a mistake.

Oh super!

It wasn’t long before I regretted leaving so early in the morning, or heading on the trip solo altogether.  It had been hours since I had seen another person, and the narrow trail I was on had me wading through shoulder height berry bushes. If this was the open trail, I shuddered to think what the closed portion of trail looked like, as this was some of the nicest bear habitat I had seen. I needed to increase the amount of noise I was making in order to travel safely, and I nervously yelled a stream of consciousness into the dense brush.  It wasn’t long before I had crafted a rather fatalistic bear call. “Step Right Up!” I yelled, “Berries here, get them while they’re ripe!” Oh god, I thought, what if they know English. The thought of the stampede of bears rushing towards me in page boy hats, waving five dollar bills made me chuckle nervously.  “Juicy, juicy berries, great for bears! It’s a limited time offer, get them while they’re ripe!”  As much as I craved the safety knowing another person was around, I cringed at the thought of running into them now as I pitched my berry sale up the pass. 

This must be the way...

Sure, this seems safe...

The uphill, while generally a gentle grade, was relentless. I tackled the steeper sections with slow, small steps, pausing to rest often. The views weren’t great on the trail, but wildflowers were in abundance and I admired them anytime I stopped moving.  Unfortunately, the bugs were also in abundance and my rests were often cut short to get away from the little pests. I was part way up a particularly steep portion of trail when a strange noise made my heart leap into my throat.  I was woefully unprepared for an encounter of this sort and my mind raced at what I would do if I was attacked.  The noise became louder as I inched forward, on the trail ahead of me was a danger I had not anticipated. Bees. Hundreds of bees.  Like the bees near the lake the night before, they hovered just above ground, and I waded through them carefully. “Don’t stop – just keep moving” I urged myself, though I was in desperate need of a rest to catch my breath. I emerged through the cloud of bees without a single sting and the buzzing noise faded behind me. “Nobody is ever going to believe you.” I thought. Hell, I hardly even believed me.

I woke with a start, my head nodded rhythmically with my heart beat as I sleepily came to terms with my surroundings.  A bustling group of women, four long time friends, had burst through the door of the hut and jolted me awake.  I sat up groggily and checked the time, the women apologized for waking me, and then continued their conversations. It would be the theme for the day, the women later gabbing well in to the night.  I didn’t sleep much anyway, tossing and turning throughout the night. Finally, at 3:30 am I exacted my revenge, unintentionally of course.  I tried to be quiet, but as it turns out, extracting oneself from a sleeping bag and exiting a top bunk on little sleep, in a strange place and in the dark was harder than it sounded. A few bumps and bruises later, I snuck out the door to finish readying myself for the day in the cook shelter.

Luxury! Luxury!

After a gut wrenching breakfast of sugar bars and a sugar drink loosely resembling coffee, I was on the trail.  I hadn’t come this far to be denied a sunrise photo and I yelled my way towards Nub peak. Occasionally, I choked back fear as my head lamp illuminated a small path for me through the forest.  A mother Grizzly and her cubs had been calling the area around the Assiniboine Lodge home all summer, and I was petrified by the thought of running in to her in the darkness.  As the sun began it’s appearance for the day, I crested the Niblet, a scenic high point overlooking the valley and my goal for the morning. I set my camera up and began to settle in for the show.  I glanced at my watch, then at the glowing horizon.  I looked up toward the next high point on the trail, a few hundred metres up the trail, then down at my watch. This view could be better, I thought, and I should have just enough time to find out for sure before the real show begins.  I gathered my things again and practically sprinted up the final slope.  The views, as I suspected, were much better.  I busied myself shooting as many compositions as I could find. Like the first night on the trail, the smoke from nearby forest fires wasn’t doing any favours for the view, but it did make the golden hour last for nearly two. 

Forest fire smoke made for crappy views, but interesting colours

A marmot came to join me on the grassy slope, and he foraged for breakfast while I foraged for photos. Evidently used to humans, the marmot nibbled grass until it was nearly an arm length away.  I snapped a few photos of my new found model before quietly sneaking away and giving the animal its space back. How nice of him to share this place with me, but its demeanor makes me think he’s seen a few too many hand held goodies in his lifetime. I glowered at the lack of respect shown by hikers before me, but my mood couldn’t be dampened for long. I had spent a glorious few hours in solitude in this mountain kingdom, and I grinned from ear to ear back to the hut.

I had settled into a routine of taking short cat naps rather than bother trying to sleep, and after moving my things to the next hut for the night, took another nap.  My new dorm mates woke me up again, but at least they made an effort to be quieter than the last group.  Despite their efforts, I was awake again although not entirely motivated to wander too far from home base. I gathered my things and made my way over to Gog Lake to bask in the afternoon sun. I found a perch at the base of a waterfall to dip my feet and scribble in my notebook for a few hours.  I considered calling in dead to work and attempting to eke out a living from the base of the waterfall for the rest of my life, but a small group of hikers interrupted my daydream and I took their presence as my time to move on. 

The final sunrise alarm rang, I had been lying in bed waiting for it and my feet hit the floor in an instant.  My new polite dorm mates were treated to an equally polite Llisa as I changed out of my pajamas in the dark and quietly grabbed my bag, I snuck out the door far more gracefully than the morning before.  After another breakfast of sugar and sugar coffee I took the short hike towards the lake while vowing to never eat another cereal bar in my life.   I had scoped out a few compositions at Lake Magog on my first evening in the park and I confidently strode down to the shore in the hour before dawn to set up my camera. The smoke had somewhat cleared over night, and I could see faint clouds in the sky. I waded in the water carefully with my camera, I’d managed to go the entire trip so far without some sort of water related mishap, and I wasn’t about to start on my last day.

 Across the water Assiniboine rose towards the sky, commanding the view and I happily drank it all in. A handful of fish rose to the surface of the lake leaving rings in the glasslike reflection of the water, I had met a number of fishermen in the previous days but surprisingly, none of them were around to throw flies at the fish.  

It wasn’t as if I had been expecting there to be hordes of people lined up to take in the views like you might find around easily accessible locations around Banff, but I certainly hadn’t expected to have these locations entirely to myself, especially not every single day.  It wasn’t until I had returned to the hut and begun packing my bag for the long trip home that I ran into people that morning. Still, the moment I left the hut and set off towards Wonder Pass, I was alone again. I didn’t mind the lack of company for the first few hundred metres of my trip, until I passed the place I had spent hours the evening before.  Some time in the 10 hours between leaving Gog Lake and passing by on my hike home the next morning, the resident Grizzly bear had visited and subsequently passed a rather large bowel movement on top of the spot I had been photographing the night before.  I felt insulted, as if the bear had deliberately shat on my photo location and therefore my heart, but the feeling faded quickly with the realization that I now had to hike this stretch alone, knowing the resident Grizzly was around.

There’s no better motivating factor when hiking than the feeling of “I need to get the hell out of here” and I yelled my way towards the pass.  Just before I began the climb, I stopped and filled my water bottle in a creek, and fortuitously, a group of four day hikers came in to view. It wasn’t long before they had surpassed me on the trail, and I calmed knowing their chatter ahead of me would give any bear that might be ahead some advance warning on my behalf.

To my surprise, I crested Wonder Pass fairly quickly and easily. With the word “Pass” in the name I had braced myself for a long uphill slog, but the elevated starting point of the hike worked to my advantage.  I paused briefly at the summit to snap a photo before being chased off the pass by curious bees.  This time the bees weren’t hovering around my feet, instead they were hungrily eyeing the satchel of seeds and dried beef I had stuffed into my pants pockets. I didn’t need the extra incentive to get on the trail again, damn bees weren’t going to get any of my beef jerky if I had anything to say about it.

It wasn’t long before the group of hikers ahead of me faded from sight and I was alone again, picking my way down the trail toward Marvel Lake while picking food out of my pockets.  The elevation loss was steady, and while downhill is usually my favourite kind of hiking, my toes were beginning to complain. A lot. I’d barely made it off the pass and started along Marvel Lake when the pain really began to set in and I began to stop every so often to readjust my boots. Despite the trail levelling, the boot situation worsened. I’d tighten the laces and loosen the laces, pull up my socks and change my socks but to no relief.  While the trail was level, the slope it was carved into was steep and I struggled to get into my backpack after fixing my boots. At one point, I slipped down the slope, tumbling face first into the scree with the weight of the pack crushing down on me. I cursed at my clumsiness as I struggled to right myself and step back onto level ground.  Later, I tripped on thin air and the weight of the pack sent me tumbling on to the trail. “What the hell?!” the fatigue of the previous days was beginning to take its toll on my concentration and I promised myself I would stop and take stock of the situation once I reached the 13 kilometre mark.

Nice gentle slopes to fall down

Finally, I hobbled up to Bryant Creek, dropped my bag and stuck my poor feet into the water.  The campsite I had booked was a mere kilometre away, but it was only 1 pm. I nibbled on some lunch and pondered my options. It was Saturday, and between excitement, cold temperatures and general hut life, I hadn’t managed to get a good night’s sleep since the previous Monday. I had little hope of getting any more sleep in a tent.  The thought of my own bed, and actually being able to sleep was enough to forego any further pondering.  I removed a set of insoles from my boots to give my toes a bit more room, repacked my bag and gingerly stepped away from the river bank. While I was resting, another swarm of bees had surrounded me. What is it with these bees?  With the insoles removed, the boots felt a little better but the damage to my toes had already begun and a single toenail on each foot had begun to blacken.   Knowing that I would have day light until at least 10 pm, I made a plan to hike slowly and take a rest to soak my feet at every major creek crossing, I also took the liberty of soaking my shirt to stave off some of the mid day heat. I kicked myself for not thinking of it three days ago, although I had obviously started the hike with a bit more dignity than I was finishing it.

Feet go in here

Besides the pain in my feet, the long hill I had descended on my first day of hiking was now also weighing heavily in my mind, as I needed to get to the top of it in order to get home.  With every passing kilometre, the uphill sections never seemed quite as bad as I had imagined and I started to believe I might have exaggerated its significance. At the final creek crossing, I believed I was going to get away with avoiding going up the long hill altogether, and then I reached the bottom of the hill.  The path that stretched before me was far taller and far steeper than anything I had climbed in the days prior.  At the top of the hill, and seemingly in a very un-scenic and arbitrary location, sat a bench.  I decided that when I reached that bench, I was going to sit on it, and so I began the longest 100 metre uphill section of the trail.

After far too long, I reached the top of the final hill and the bench came in to view.  I mercifully collapsed on to its surface. It was at that point that the rain forecasted for the day began to catch up to me.  What the forecast had failed to mention, was that the rain was bringing with it a great deal of wind and lightning. I had barely sat down for my preapproved rest, when I was so rudely spurred back on to my feet again with a sense of urgency.  A storm had appeared from behind the mountains and was fast approaching me. The last four kilometres of trail that I had to travel on was on a fire road sorely lacking in cover, with lightning in the distance and my person covered in a fine assortment of lightning rods, I needed to get moving. 

My normal 2 kilometre an hour pace quickened to 4 kilometres an hour.  Fat rain drops began to pelt my face.  The 4 kilometre an hour pace was increased to five kilometres an hour.  My toes screamed at the pain as the wind picked up.  In the forest next to the trail, trees began to sway wildly.  The jolting crack of a tree breaking in the wind made my heart jump into my throat as my pace quickened to 6 kilometres an hour. The bear spray hanging from my shoulder strap pelted me in the face as I speed waddled down the trail.  The time between the flash of lightning and the clap of thunder lessened as the storm grew near, every piece of me screamed to slow down, to rest. I chuckled at the thought of emerging unscathed after 70 kilometres of solo hiking, often in the dark,  over the past few days only to be wiped out by a tree or a lightning bolt a mere kilometre from the truck. Finally, the parking lot came in to view again and I leapt in to the truck, moments later the storm hit with full force and pelted my windshield in a down pour, “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?” I texted Mr. Bastard, a full day ahead of schedule “I could really go for a burger and a beer”.

All for this

Read Part 1

Canada Day long weekend, in theory, one of very few times a year that we can camp comfortably.  It seems every other long weekend in Canada involves snow.  Not surprising then, that it was the weekend Mr. Bastard chose for his back country trek from Ribbon Lake to Lillian Lake in Kananaskis, a 30 kilometre adventure with one of his best friends.  I wasn't invited. Neither was the dog.

Mr. Bastard and our friend returned a few days later to tell their tale of hiking mountain passes through whiteout blizzards in a kilt, decommissioned trails, a depressing amount of rain, and a legendary (albeit hilarious) hangover. But they aren't the writer of this blog, so you will have to track them down in person for the story. Not wanting to feel left out of the fun, I chose a more glamorous way to spend a few days in the mountains, and parked our RV in a car accessible campground.  Moments after I had declared my camp to be set up, ominous clouds tumbled through the valley and it soon became apparent that my choice of accommodation would be the more comfortable way to spend the weekend.  It rained. A lot. 

It rained enough to keep all but the most stubborn people out of the mountain playground. My kind of people.  The Kananaskis valley, normally crawling with recreationalists was eerily quiet on the most popular camping weekend of the year.  The majority of the people who opted to stay home didn't know what they were missing, to be entirely truthful I didn't know either, but with a 5 minute commute it was silly not to have a look.

The luxurious 4:30 am alarm clock brought me out of a dream, a nice change from the midnight alarm clocks as of late.  The sky was already light enough that I didn't have to struggle to find my matches to light the stove.  The sound of coffee percolating in the twilight was about the happiest noise I could hear as I readied myself for the day ahead.

Creepy dog, buried somewhere underneath a fleece blanket and two feather duvets, didn't even budge as I tip-toed out of our mobile abode. Despite the forecast, the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue in the early morning light. I cursed the sky. I had been expecting dramatic clouds that follow a rain storm. I made my way to Wedge Pond, shouldered my camera bag and gave a meek call in to the forest. The call was met by silence.  I took a few steps away from my vehicle and called again, this time with force "GOOD MORNING!"  My call was met with singing birds and the chattering of squirrels.  I confidently strode down the path towards the water and gasped at my good fortune. Although the rain had ceased for a brief reprieve, the wildly popular location for sunrise photography was deserted, save for a few deer that quickly vacated the area. 

Mist rose from the water creating an enchanting atmosphere, and as luck would have it, some clouds had begun to form above the mountains. I dropped my camera bag and snapped a shot, light can be a fickle mistress and I daren't miss a shot for taking too long setting up a composition. 

With a single frame already captured, I speed walked along the shoreline in search of a second shot. Within a hundred metres, I located the solitary piece of driftwood I had launched years ago and shuffled it into place. I had been photographing this log for years, it would be a shame to forego the tradition on a morning like this.  I scurried along the shoreline again to gather my things. It's amazing how much mess I had managed to make the moment I had a place to myself. It took a few trips up and down the shore to collect everything, but soon the coffee, camera bag, a few filters, tripod and camera were consolidated next to my foreground interest.

With driftwood and camera in place, I settled in with my coffee to watch the light dance with the clouds and flirt with the mountain faces. The stress of the week prior melted in to a sea of forest green and sunrise pink hues. The camera clicked, a few shots here and there and in between shutters I stood with jaw agape at the scene before me.  I silently crowned myself the title "Llisa the Ready, Grand Duchess of Stubbornness , Drinker of Coffee, Holder of Cameras" as I sipped my coffee and watched the mist rising in the dawn. So far the name hasn't caught on. I think it might be too short.

I always wonder what makes a photographer drag themselves in to the wilderness before dawn just to watch a sunrise. It is a wholly meditative experience to witness the play between atmosphere and light, an experience that one would think should be reserved for the spiritual or religious. Instead, Nikons are raised in salute to the sun, capturing a moment in time so peaceful that if we could convince the world to wake up early enough, perhaps we would live in a more harmonious society.  It's truly a shame more people don't make an effort to greet the day this way, still, I don't mind the solitude.

The ocean lured me closer with every crashing wave, and with pants rolled up I waded through warm tide pools, illuminated by distant street lights and the glow of my headlamp. In the dark, I could hear the tide thrashing into a small band of cliffs with a thunderous roar, occasionally spilling cool water over the top and into the pools I was occupying to lap at the bottom of my pants.  As twilight began to form silhouettes of compositions for me, I set my bag down and made my way through the labyrinth of pools, anemone and rocks to set up my camera. This is the life.

Happy Surprise Tree

It just wouldn't be a proper vacation, without returning home feeling completely exhausted, in need of a 3 day nap and a hot shower.  In that regard, Hawaii was a complete success.  That's not to say there wasn't a good deal of relaxation and downtime, there was.  While Mr. Bastard and I were there, we sampled more than our fair share of local beer, Kona coffee and a lifetime of Spam in flavours I didn't know existed - the finer things in life. But more often than not we just weren't content with a day of lounging around on a beach.  Our days were full of hiking, snorkelling and exploration.  On top of that - photography, the most exhausting hobby I could have possibly fallen in love with.    

It seemed strange to continually drag myself out of bed at 4 am to take a cold shower (Note to self: next time book a hotel that has hot water...)  while on vacation.  Leaving my peacefully sleeping husband behind in the cool air conditioned room to walk out in to the stifling heat, alone, in to a city I was not familiar with wasn't an easy thing to do, but the reasonable sunrise and sunset times were too hard to resist and with only a week to capture as much as I could, I was determined to make the most of my time on the island. 

Thin Line

I consider myself lucky, either that or extremely persuasive, in that Mr. Bastard agreed to join me on a rather ambitious sunrise excursion.  I had been up for an hour already by the time Mr. Bastard's alarm clock rang around 2am, signalling our time to hit the road.  With eyes open just enough to make it from the hotel door and into the front seat of the car, he quickly fell back asleep while I drove through the night, drinking cans of cold brew coffee like it was my last day on earth.  As we neared the summit of Kiluea volcano in the dark, the glow of the crater could be seen on the horizon and I quietly lost my mind.  Mr. Bastard slept peacefully in the passenger seat unaware of the sights before us, as I began to swear a string of curse words under my breath that continued relentlessly for the next thirty minutes.  

Finally, we pulled in to Volcano National Park and Mr. Bastard began to wake up.  I could hardly contain myself, and the moment I knew he was awake I let my curse words bubble to the surface like lava.   I won't repeat them here, but they sounded like "roly duck" except a lot louder, a lot more of them and I may have forgotten to breath in between words.

We parked our rental car at the summit of the crater, I let out the last of my "roly ducks" as I grabbed my camera bag, and then joined the few but dedicated pyjama clad tourists in awed silence.  Nobody spoke but to whisper to the person next to them as the glow of the crater battled starlight and sunrise for attention. The lava, miles away, hissed, and bubbled and roared at our silence. Had I not been intent on capturing the glow of the crater in the night, it's likely we would have opted to stay in bed only to visit during waking hours.  Twilight at the Kiluea crater was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever laid my eyes on, and I'm grateful my camera made me do it.

Hawaii

I have never been to a tropical location before. Every vacation I have ever taken has been safely in the Northern Hemisphere, far, far away from the sun where a comfortable summer day is a balmy room temperature.  I take Vitamin D supplements in lieu of seeing sunshine for all but three months of the year.  The three months in Canada that we see days above 20 degrees Celsius, I'm generally complaining about the heat.  The thought of spending a week close to the equator made me very, very nervous.   Six days before the flight was scheduled to take off from the depths of Canadian winter and deposit Mr. Bastard and I into our first tropical vacation , I realised I did not own three crucial items.  Sunscreen, sandals and a hat.

This blog post is really so I can show you my family vacation photos. Sorry if you're not into that.

Having heard horror stories about vacations ruined by the pain of something called a "Sunburn" sunscreen was on the top of my list. Surprisingly, it was procured with relative ease, and Mr. Bastard and I each packed a bottle of the most waterproof, S-P-F-iest sunscreen money could buy.  We may be the only two Canadians who returned from the beach with skin as pasty as when we left. I consider that a great success.

The shoes were a little bit harder. I ran through every shoe section in every store I could find. I knew what I wanted, I wanted a cross between sandal and hiking boot, an oxymoron in shoe form.  I was pretty sure what I wanted existed, but after efficiently spending one minute or less in every shoe store in South Calgary I determined that what I wanted definitely was not in stock.

 Eventually I admitted that I should have been more prepared, and shopped for summer items in Canada when it was still summer. Sandals aren't exactly a big seller when wearing them out of the store means certain frostbite.   Eventually, I gave up on finding the perfect sandals that I wanted and took a chance ordering them online.  With 6  days to spare, I placed my order and the perfect pair arrived at my door step approximately 36 hours before we left for our trip. I like to live dangerously. Team Bastard Where the Sun Don't Shine

You know what's awesome in Hawaii? Lava tubes, they are cool and I can walk through them without sweating.

Finding the hat however, was a lesson in retail hell. Not because I'm picky. Not because it's winter and toques outnumber sun hats 10 to 1. Not because I have a tiny head. But because I have a tiny head, I'm picky, it's winter and toques outnumber sun hats 10 to 1.  It. Took. Hours.  I still don't know why or even how Mr. Bastard kept up with me.  I tried on every hat in every store in every department in Southern Calgary.  Kids hats fit better.  Ladies hats look better. Why don't they make this hat style, with that material, in this size and that colour? Eventually, and after many, many, many trips to the mirror, I found a hat. It wasn't perfect, but it was the material I wanted, it mostly fit and I had been dragging Mr. Bastard through store after store for hours.  I bought it, and was happy that my head and face would be protected from the sun. Mr. Bastard was also happy.

Have I mentioned the sun makes me nervous?  I'd never been to a warm place, ever. I have never had a reason to really fear the sun, but some days in Calgary it can be 30 degrees Celsius, and wow. That is hot. My brain turns to mashed potatoes. I get fatigued. I hate the heat yet here I was about to embark on a tropical vacation, but I was armed and ready. I had sunscreen. I had sandals. I had a hat. 

Within 16 hours of arriving in Hawaii, Mr. Bastard and I had picked up our car, checked in to our hotel, slept, woke up, procured breakfast, driven across the entire Island, found a very cool waterfall to explore and I immediately lost my hat.

This is the last known location (and only photo) of my hat. 

We then spent four of our seven days in paradise searching for the perfect replacement....  

The replacement. I did not lose this hat.

When I pointed the jeep toward the mountains after work, I didn't expect the biggest adventure would take place miles away from the hike I had planned.  With Creepy dog quickly bored of the passing scenery and settled into her bed, and a mass of camera gear, hiking boots and a comically oversized back pack occupying the entire back seat, we throttled toward the trail head. But first - I needed to eat some dinner, and not just anything would do. I wanted a burger. Something that would fuel me for the hike ahead but would be fast to pick up and eat. I would sooner starve than miss out on some good light. 

In my haste to beat rush hour traffic however, I had chosen a route void of fast food options. As I ventured out of city limits, the burger options dwindled, and soon became mere cows dotting the landscape. I pointed the cows out to Creepy and she immediately jolted out of her slumber and stared in the opposite direction I was pointing. Creepy loves cows.

I wasn't worried about the lack of fast food options though, I was approaching a cluster of small towns located in some of the finest farming and ranching areas in the province, surely, I would be able to find a burger. And I did.

I walked up to the trailer window to look at the menu while Creepy dog sniffed around the patio for leftovers. My first thought probably should have been "Why am I the only one here during dinner time?" or "The granola bars I packed will probably be good enough" or even a simple "Food poisoning is bad for you" but instead I went with "Oh! Well that sounds good!"

I placed my order and watched as the cook slapped a great deal of meat onto the grill. This wasn't going to be as fast as I thought it would be, and I took Creepy dog for a walk around the block. When I returned, there was a parcel waiting for me on the counter. I peeked inside and discovered it was my dinner. I decided I would dig in once I was on the highway again to save time, and loaded the parcel into the jeep.  Once in the drivers side again, I noticed the burger occupied a great deal of the dashboard space and created a slight blind spot.  I did my best to keep my eyes on the road ahead while Creepy kept close watch over the burger. 

Back at cruising speed again, I retrieved the parcel from the dashboard and peeled the packaging slightly in order to contain the burger . I attempted a bite and came out with a mouthful of lettuce, paper and regret. I had greatly underestimated my road food capabilities. The burger was placed back on the dashboard and I began a 67 kilometre decision making process.

Do I pull over and just eat?
It's too hot out, I'd need to find somewhere shady to park.
I've been driving for an hour now, how can it be the middle of the prairie still? How long until I find the next trees?
I could go until the trail head, there's trees there, it will be cooler in the mountains too.
No, can't do that, the burger will be cold by then.
What if I just tried to drive and eat, but ... just ... do it better this time?

The burger was retrieved from it's perch on the dashboard, and another bite attempted. This time, I emerged victorious with a mouthful of food, but there was a problem.  I had damaged the structural integrity of the burger, and it was now losing sauce. The packaging was reaching critical sogginess. I had no choice. I pulled over to the side of the road to tackle the burger with everything I had.

In the sweltering heat, I visually inspected the burger.  It was a mass of bun, meat, other meat, and a pile of vegetables. I opened my mouth as practice, I wasn't entirely confident the burger would fit.  I rotated the burger 12 degrees clockwise and opened my mouth again.  It just didn't seem like it would be physically possible to get a bite with a good bun -fixin's- burger ratio without causing myself physical harm. I longed for a table, a plate a knife and fork and maybe a cheerleader or two for moral support.  As I studied the burger and packaging, deciding on the best course of action, Creepy dog stared intently at me from her seat next to mine. Creepy loves cows.

Finally, I threw caution to the wind and took as big of a bite as my jaw would allow.  Immediately, the burger exploded within the confines of the parcel, and the sauce made it's way through the bottom of the packaging and onto my lap. I placed a napkin on my lap to catch the drips, but the sauce soon began creating a precarious jalapeno flavoured time bomb in my crotch.  I panicked.  One hand punched the burger out the open driver's side window, sauce dripping  down my arm and into my armpit.  In the other hand,  I scooped the napkin up and flung the sauce out the window, dripping it down the side of the jeep. There is a slight chance the sauce permanently discoloured the driver side door paint of the jeep, my armpits, however, survived unscathed.

This was messier than expected. 

I stretched my body up against the steering wheel and strained to reach my face out the window to match my dinner laden fist. I tried to take a bite, my upper torso leaning out the driver's side window but I was just too short  to make it work. Defeated, I slumped back in to the driver's seat, my left hand slowly became saturated with sauce as it held my dinner just out of my reach.  When the flies  began to buzz around, I shook my hand to drive them away and lettuce flew out of the burger. A fly, caught in the crossfire struggled on the windowsill, covered in combination of lettuce and sauce, much like I had done moments before.  I desperately looked around for a solution, there had to be a better way.

I spotted Creepy's portable hiking water dish, unfolded it and placed the dish daintily on to my lap, like the classy lady that I am.  I centred the burger over top the 3 inch diameter target, and rolled up the window to keep out the flies.  This burger had put up a good fight, but I don't lose fights to food. It was getting uncomfortably hot in the jeep, and I just wanted to get this ordeal over so we could get moving again. With Creepy on standby to pick up the pieces, I tore in to the burger and somehow wound up with an entire essay about it.

Proof of the size of the burger, you can barely see my legs! Okay, maybe the cell phone photo doesn't really do it justice, but the fact that I saved the photo after all these months should say enough. 

I will spare you the most graphic details of the burger consumption, I'll just say that by the end, my sunglasses were so greasy, I was unable to clean them enough to drive safely. Fortunately, I had a spare pair along with me.  The greasy sunglasses may have explained the butter I found on my eyelid later, but what confuses me is that 3 hours passed by the time I noticed I'd been wandering around with a buttered eyelid.  To complete my burger ensemble, I found chunks of onion and lettuce on my left shoulder - I'm going to tell you that I don't know how that happened, but truthfully, I was probably trying to fan myself with the burger in an attempt to cool down. As I sat there, about to finish eating and move on, some fishermen appeared across the highway. The fishermen looked at me, and smiled pityingly as they climbed into their trucks and drove away. I still wonder how much they had witnessed.

Once I was sufficiently marinated in hamburger fixings, Creepy dog and I went for a solo sunset hike in the alpine.  That seems like that's where the adventure should begin, but I had already tackled the greatest challenge of the day and succeeded.  A solo walk into grizzly country would be a piece of cake. As delicious as I must have smelled, not even a raven disturbed the peaceful valley we hiked into. No passing cars or distant sirens, no ringing cell phones or chatter, not even the sound of a plane passing overhead. The only sound was from my boots steadily gaining distance on the trail, the water trickling down the valley from unknown sources and the wind whirling clouds above me. 

But that's not what's important here, the important thing is that I ate that entire burger without any help from anyone. I'll admit, it wasn't always pretty but a little recognition would have been nice, like a polaroid on the wall and a plaque with my name engraved on it next to the cash register. I don't ask for much. 

Creepy and I scrambled up the creek for a better vantage point so I could watch the last light of day leave the mountains in the Elk Range.  With so much empty and beautiful space laid out in front of me, the sense of isolation left me feeling both utterly terrified yet completely elated. It was a strange and wonderful feeling. I felt full, and I don't think it was because of the burger.

The clock read 10:43 pm as I set my alarm to ring at midnight, a mere hour and seventeen minutes to fall asleep and wake up again. "Photography is a stupid hobby" I muttered to myself, and shut off the bedside lamp. Instantaneously, the "It's 12:30, you're late, you should probably skip the shower" alarm rang and I bolted out of bed before I had the chance to protest.  Not this time Llisa. Not this time.

Approximately 30 minutes prior, at the ringing of the first alarm, I had somehow convinced myself that I was definitely awake and was only going to rest my eyes for a few minutes before getting out of bed. I had accomplished this by placing my left foot on the ground and promptly falling asleep. The memories of the incident are hazy, but the outcome was clear - I had fallen for the oldest line in the book. The morning's objective was to be in the mountains and well above tree line before the sun rose, I did some mental math to calculate sunrise minus drive and hiking time and decided to ignore the alarm clock for a second time that morning. Despite the warning on the alarm clock to skip the shower, I turned on the bathtub faucet and stepped in to the tub. I figured cleaning the dirt off could only help a person become more aerodynamic, and I could use all the help I could get now that I was behind schedule. 

The familiar drive from Calgary to Canmore, punctuated by dots of light on the horizon from approaching cars, was made more interesting by making up the life story of the occupants.  What kind of crazy person would be out driving at this time of day, I wondered as I daydreamed my way West. In a flash, I pulled in to the trail head parking lot.  The drive had flown by, yet somehow, I was still 30 minutes behind schedule. 

Normally, my pre-dawn-pre-hike routine starts by cracking the door of the truck open an inch to let some reality in, followed by the talking into or out of what I have planned, carefully weighing pros (sunrise photos) and cons (might miss the sunrise and this will be a waste of time, death) The culmination of the talk can end one of two ways, either the door is flung open and a pair of hiking boots hit the ground, or the door is carefully shut, ignition key turned and I retreat feeling a little bit sheepish. On this day however, the schedule was too tight for pep talks, and my boots hit the ground before I had a chance to properly consider my options.

Having hiked the Ha Ling trail once before, in the daytime, two years ago, with a horde of fellow hikers, I was fairly confident in my ability to hike it again, in the dark, alone.  I reached the obvious monument marking the beginning of the trail with ease and I commended myself on my excellent route finding abilities as I stepped into the forest. The glow of my headlamp illuminated the gnarled tree roots exposed by thousands of boots, and I picked my way over every tripping hazard, slowly forging upward. Occasionally, I would find myself in a grove of bushes, and once, I found myself with toes toward a rather intimidating cliff overlooking the valley.  Each time I would use my superior deduction and route finding skills to figure out that wasn't part of the trail, turn myself one hundred eighty degrees, and follow my flashlight towards a safer, more easily travelled path.  My underwear was clean, but it wasn't emergency room clean and I wouldn't want to embarrass my mother like that. Not today Llisa. Not today.

If there's one thing I have learned about hiking over the past few years, it's the importance of pace. My own pace is an embarrassing rate at which to travel. It's not unlike an octogenarian's epic journey toward the bathroom light at 2 o'clock in the morning. I move forward a mere six inches at a time, my feet barely crossing in front of each other, at turtle speed. I'm painfully aware that I look like I might keel over and die at any second, but oddly enough, with my old man mountain shuffle I can now complete hikes in a fraction of the time they used to take me, without getting too tired.  It's doubly satisfying to shamble past hikers who previously left me in their dust on their numerous breaks, but that is a daytime hiker's game and there was nothing on this trail to race except the quickly approaching dawn.

It could have been my old man mountain shuffle that brought me above treeline well ahead of schedule, or perhaps it was my freshly shorn legs and lusciously shampooed hair cutting down on wind resistance. I set my camera bag down right in the middle of the saddle between Ha Ling and Miner's Peak, not only before sunrise, but with enough time to spare to change into some warmer clothes, brew a cup of instant coffee and settle in for the show. The wind howled high above Canmore, and I teetered around with my tripod for stability, bracing myself against the force.  I found a little bit of shelter behind a boulder and observed tiny specks of hikers far in the distance, giving scale to the immense rock walls below them. I silently saluted their insomniac insanity, and snapped a photo.  

As the sun rose in the East, it lit up the mountain underneath my feet in an orange glow and I marvelled in every direction. The warmth of my blue speckled enamel coffee mug touched my lips and I drank it all in, both the coffee and views.   The camera was poised and ready, but I ignored it for a moment in order to fully appreciate the scene unfolding before me as the clouds turned a brilliant pink and the first rays of sun touched my face.  I always thought it was a shame that more people don't put the extra effort in to witness the sun rise, but as I stood there beaming back at the sun, I didn't mind the lack of company. Maybe photography wasn't such a stupid hobby after all. 

The landscape of my psyche could probably be best compared to a dive bar bathroom. Unapologetically messy, a little bit dark and littered with tips about where to go for a good time.  Unfortunately, just like the scribbled notes written on the wall of a bathroom stall inside a dive bar, there's also a lot of half formed ideas and misinformation thrown into the mix. This misinformation occasionally makes it a bit difficult to decipher where I should actually go for a good time, and where I should go if I just want to wind up feeling kind of dirty and wholly unrewarded.

Of course, I'm talking about landscape photography locations.  Rather than poorly translated phone numbers scribbled on to napkins, there are notes strewn around my house with tales of mountain faces, lakes and other assorted neat looking things to point a camera at. But just like a randomized ten digit number, not all of those scraps of paper are a sure thing. In fact, lately I've been striking out seemingly every time I head for the door, a real dry spell despite my penchant for coming home soaking wet after standing around in various pools of water.

Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's bad timing, the wrong location or some cruel combination of the three. Maybe it's the camera gear or heaven forbid that human located behind the lens.

Maybe my standards have risen beyond my capabilities for the time being. It happens from time to time, a necessary part of growing, but damn if it doesn't start to get a little bit discouraging after a while.

Whatever the issue, it's made for some long, cold, boring photo shoots these last few months.

Just the other morning, I spent nearly two hours fidgeting in a muddy puddle along the side of the highway waiting for the sun to rise. I rearranged rocks along the side of the ditch. I shuffled my feet, sometimes dancing to poorly hummed music, but more often silently to stay warm. I pointlessly narrated every lens change, every filter change every shuffle of the tripod to my audience of birds. I knelt down in the mud and stirred all the ice in the puddle with a stick until it was broken up into tiny little pieces. At one point, I even spent a few minutes imitating the initial wash cycle of an old top loading clothes washer, twisting my torso back and forth with rubber arms and letting inertia wrap them around my body. Limp, spaghetti arms flailing from side to side to side to side to side. Still, the sun would not show itself. 

If you're getting into photography so you can tell your friends about the glamorous life you lead,  you have two options: Don't get into landscape photography, or lie.

Notice how the puddle is ice free?  I did that with only a small stick and a great deal of time.

The most common way for me to pass time while I wait for an unavoidably anticlimactic rising of the sun has been to pull a second camera out of the bag with my squeaky old telephoto lens, and kill time zoomed in to 200mm.  It's how I have accidentally produced the beginning of a new series which I desperately hope not to have to continue working on, but know that it's continued progression as a body of work is as inevitable as cloudy mornings in the Rockies.  The series is yet to be named, partially because I'm afraid if I name the images my discontent with the conditions under which they were made will shine through, and partially because despite all that I still like them. Besides, at the end of the day I don't really mind standing in a drainage ditch for hours on end, because time spent doing what you love, is still time well spent, and even if all I'm doing is flailing my arms from side to side -  I still have a camera in my hands.