Day 8: 8/22/11 (continued)

Leaving the kitchy tourist trap behind, I started down the road in the rain. My groin had tightened significantly as a result of my extended break and the cooler weather, and responded quite painfully to the extended road-walking. I tried to hitch a lift to the Howse Pass trailhead but had no luck, despite the fairly steady traffic. The start of the trail was paved up to Mistaya Canyon, a smaller and less impressive version of the limestone slots along Owen Creek and the Maligne River. Maybe my solo walk along the entirely undeveloped Owen Creek Canyon had jaded me somewhat, for there were almost a dozen people at the feature despite the wet weather.

I crossed the bridge over the Mistaya, finally leaving concrete for soil, and my groin immediately felt a little better. The still relatively wide trail wound through dense forest around the end of a minor ridge seperating the Mistaya and Howse River drainages. The Canadian Rockies had had a very wet winter and the rivers were still in flood, so when the trail dropped down toward the Howse River's floodplain it dropped down into a soggy marsh. The trail stayed mostly along the boundry between the steep, forested, slope and the flat, open, floodplain. The boundry being the soggiest spot of the three. I took advantage of the relatively firm ground of the gravel bars between the braids of the Howse to enjoy some open views and easy walking until the river's main channel swung back toward its right bank, forcing my back up into the trees. A little bit of searching around brought me back to the trail, now much diminished and often obscoured by extensive sections of deadfall.

I continued upstream, alternating travelling on the gravel bars when the main channel was far enough from the forest edge to make it worth while. Eventually, just as it began to get dark, the gravel bars gave way to consistent marshes in the flood-plain, making travel off-trail impractical. Of course, even following the "trail" I spent half the time off of it, climbing over or around overgrown areas and masses of deadfall. I knew I was pushing my luck, and that it was only going to get harder to find a decent place to camp, but with the weather still moving in I wanted to avoid camping in a mass of snags. Eventually I could hardly see and I forced myself to stop at a small, damp, and uneven clearing that was nevertheless the best spot I'd seen in the last ten minutes. The site was even less appealing after I pitched the tarp, as I had inadvertantly pulled down a dead tree when I attempted to use it to tie off my tarp to it. Best not to think about it.

 

Day 9: 8/23/11

Quick breakfast and tea (with plenty of butter of course...mmmm!) before packing up in the steady drizzle. I made the mistake of putting on dry clothes, which were soon wet, collecting water like sponges from the vegetation during the many bouts of bushwhacking. The "trail" (at this point a glorified game path with only occasional signs of human maintenance) followed the undercut riverbank for a few kilometers, and the many trees leaning out over the river testified to its erosive power. Eventually the trail climbed up along a small drainage to low, uninspiring, Howse pass, noteable for its history and lack of height, it had been a major thoroughfare for natives and setters attempting cross the divide, and connect the Saskatchewan and Kootenay drainages. I wouldn't be surprised if the divide was crossed much more frequently, and the trail over it in much better condition, 200 years ago. Howse Pass did have a small clearing with a crumbling memorial to David Thompson, the first white man to explore much of the region. In fact, leaving Banff Natinal Park, I was now on the "David Thompson Memorial Heritage Trail", meant to celebrate the man's legacy. I soon lost the trail in a meadow, and rather than search for it decided to drop cross country down a few hundred feet of rocky cliffs and thick-brush covered ramps to the Baleberry River. Luckily, a significant percentage of the brush came in the form of blueberry bushes, which offered snacking in addition to high-qualuty veggie-belays.

As I continued cross-country toward and (eventually) along the river, I was unsure which slowed me more, the berries, the bush, or the scrambling. Now in the very welcome sunshine, I began to enjoy myself a bit more. The game paths and convoluted terrain were more puzzle than the obstacles presented by the deadfall obstructing the mostly non-existant "trail"; and who is immune to the positive energy provided by fresh-picked berries? Coming to an expansive gravelbar at the outflow of the Cairnes Glacier, I took advantage of the warm sun and beautiful three-stage waterfall to dry my gear and eat some cheese.

Oddly, there is a rather well-built bridge across the outflow which, though large, would be a simple ford. Rejoining the trail after crossing the bridge, I found it much easier to follow. Though still often overgrown and obscured, it did show the occasional signs of maintenance. Eventually I even ran into a memorial plaque commemorating the trail in the name of David Thompson. Soon after the miniature monument I came to the remains of the bridge over Caines Creek, now nothing but a few pieces of pummeled lumber lodged in the brush at the edge of the gravel and boulders. At first glance, the creek looked highly braided and like crossing would be simple. However, the main channel was deep and fast, and it actually wound through the gravel flood zone more or less intact. The one place it narrowed almost enough to jump across there was a bush/tree on the far side blocking the bank. I walked back down to the widest section of the main channel, where the drop was relatively modest, and started across, using my two treking poles as supports in front of me so that I formed a tripod. About halfway, in water almost up to my groin and poles shaking so hard I thought they were going to either explode or fly out of my hands, I started to feel myself slipping. I jumped, threw myself to my left and landed on all fours in shallow water at the edge of the channel.

I pushed myself up to my feet and looked around for a trail on the other side. Finding none, I decided to just push my way through the brush towards the Bayberry River until I found the dirt road that parellels it. I soon emerged from a tangel of brush unto an eroded, washed-out, and almost completely flooded 2-track that had an almost navigable flow of water. Shame I didn't pack my packraft. I waded down the track to its unsigned (except for some flaging) junction with the well-maintained Bayberry River Road.

I walked quickly down the road, admiring the changing hues of the icefields surrounding the valley as the sun crept up its walls from the river. I was soon at the junction with the road to Amiskwi Pass, and I enjoyed the aerobic exertion of motoring up the 2000 foot climb. Frequent gaps in the forest provided by the switchbacks facilitated occasional views to the escarpment across the Blaeberry River to the West. The light seemed to fade noticablely earlier today, and I was looking for a place to park for the night sooner than I expected. Exhausted and approaching full darkness I settled for a small, flatish, clearing on the downhill side of the road. Before settling down I scrambled up the steep embankment on the uphill side to make buttery tea and eat some more trail mix while the last bits of color left the clouds. First night under the stars in four days, strange how that feels like a lot.

Day 10: 8/24/11

Views of the spilling Mummery Glacier dominated the skyline to the west as I walked toward the high hanging valley draining the North side of Amiskwi Pass. The road wound through the broad meadow of the valley, which was ringed on three sides by a thin belt of forest, kept from encroaching down toward the meadow by moisture-loving herbs, and limited from climbing by cold and wind. Almost to the pass I left the road on a flagged path that soon faded out, leaving me once again find my way cross-country, through open forest to the pass.

I encountered a faint but obvious trail as I entered Yoho National Park at the pass. The trail soon dropped down through a small drainage and turned into an abandoned roadbed at the edge of an old burn. Rejoining the now much larger drainage, I lost the roadbed where it was supposed to cross the river at a now-absent bridge. Same as it ever was. No matter, the river downstream, would take me where I want to go eventually. I followed its course, walking in the water itself or through the marshes and rock outcrops along its banks, until I had passed Kiwetinok Peak and I was fairly sure that the road would be more apparent. I left the riverbed and hiked West-Southwest through a burned marsh, using fallen trees as bridges across the patches of mud that were more than usually deep and unappealing. More than once I chose my would-be bridge poorly and stepped directly through it, landing on my face in the mud and making quite the mess.

I found the roadbed in the center of an artificial rise, made obvious by its straightness and the healthy trees lining its sides. Now on an obvous road my travel became much faster, but propotionately less interesting; after a long climb and detour high on the west side of the valley I was soon re-deposited at the bank of the Amiskwi River at the predictably named Amiskwi River Trailhead. Leaving the trailhead I heard a sudden crashing to my left and looked just in time to see the large black rump of a fleeing black bear. Soon after crossing the river I also saw three deer grazing in the trees to my right, looking at me with nervous disinterest.

 

Strange, the multitude of tourists at the Natural Bridge almost seemed to look at me the same way, until I turned away, electing not to go towards the crowded overlook and instead see if I could make it to field in time to grab a bite to eat. Not wanting to walk along the busy Trans-Canada Highway I took the "Tally-Ho Trail" up over a small knoll to field, limiting my exposure to the bouquet of diesel exhaust and melodies of down-shifting to the 15 minutes it took me to hike the mile to Field's soccer pitch along the Kicking-Horse River. Field, protected from the highway by a bridge across the river (impressively massive for being so close to the divide) is nestled in an rather ideal location between Mts. Dennis and Stephen, and it is easy to see why it was once a famous resort town.

I was expecting Field to be expensive, and it did not dissapoint. Still, for a small resort location in the middle of nowhere at the end of the high season, I was pleseantly surprised. I was most dissapointed in the expected, but still discouraging, selection of groceries. I felt like I needed a few hours of real rest tonight, but the hostel was booked. This turned out to be a blessing, however, because a guest-house (the only place with a vacent room in town) rented me a full apartment for $100 Canadian (half the usual rent and only 30 more than the hostel charged) after they asked where I had come from. I got my own bedroom, a full kitchen, and a seperate living room with a decent selection of books and a TV instead of a dorm. Having secured my retreat for the evening, I went to the local (only) grocery/cafe for breakfast and dinner materials and a pre-dinner snack. After my rather good BBQ sandwich and Carrot Cake I bought six eggs, a pound of bacon, a quart of chocolate milk, and a gallon of OJ. Arriving back at my "room" the proprietor greeted me with half a loaf of bread, a bagel, and a stick of butter. I am now relaxing on the comfortable sofa eating a fried bacon, cheese, and egg sandwich while watching a John Wayne Movie ("War Wagon"). I'm actually looking forward to a night in a bed for a change.