I sat next to a waterfall, wondering how to re-solidify my jelly legs.
To call it a waterfall would be misleading. It was a sheet of rock spiraling down the face of the mountain. A thin stream of water poured across its cracks and crevices, cascading into the gaping maw of the forest below. It was more of a water-trickle.
I’d found it in a detour from the main path. I’d plopped down on a rock beside the trickle and stretched my screaming legs. I downed a bottle of water and munched on a granola bar as I stared up at the sheet of rock. I couldn’t see the top. I’d been hiking for one hour at this point. I wasn’t even close to the halfway point.
Sixty minutes earlier, I’d stood at the base of Sulphur Mountain in Banff Park, convincing myself that a five-kilometer vertical hike couldn’t possible be *that* hard. As I sat on my rocky resting spot, wondering how I’d persuade my legs to start walking again, I laughed at my misplaced confidence from an hour ago.
I’d arrived in Banff with one goal: Climb a mountain. I drove into the resort under the Rockies (which sounds like a Harlequin romance novel) from Calgary after my day-long road trip (detailed in last week’s column). As I drew closer to Banff, the mountains towered over me, kissing the sky with their craggly peaks. I felt like an ant weaving my way through boulders that threatened to swallow me whole.
I parked my car in a lot and wandered around the bustling tourist trap until I found a sign at the mouth of a forest. It read, “Sulphur Mountain. 5km hike. 1.5-2 hours.”
As I detailed in my column last week, you have to make stupid decisions once in a while. You need to throw caution to the wind and leap out of your comfort zone. As Prince said, “get crazy.”
I haven’t hiked in a dog’s age. I’ve walked around Yorkton dozens of times, but one long stretch of flatness doesn’t prepare you for mountainous movements. I wasn’t in hiking shape.
But, in keeping with the spirit of my journey into Banff, I hitched my backpack over my shoulder, secured my cap on my head, and started walking up.
By the time I reached the water trickle, I regreted my bravado. I was sweating from head to toe. My backpack sagged on my shoulders. My legs wouldn’t stop wobbling. I was exhausted.
I debated heading back to the base. The return trip, with its constant downward slope, was a strong temptress, especially when I couldn’t see the peak.
But I shook away that desire to retreat. I started this journey and I would see it to completition. I was going to reach the summit and take some sweet panoramic pictures for my Insta, even if it killed me.
I crossed many people hiking down the mountain as I made my final surge up. Some flashed me thumbs-up. Others told me to keep going. One person told me I “only had another 2 kilometers to go” (which was less encouraging than he intended). My fellow hikers understood the struggle. We were bonded by the climb.
When the woods cleared and I saw the peak, I burst into a run. Maybe it was the joy of accomplishing my goal. Or maybe it was the endorphin rush in my brain caused by extended cardio exercise (commonly known as the “runner’s high”). But let’s say the accomplishment caused the burst. It’s a tad more inspiring.
As I stood on top of Sulphur Mountain, overlooking Banff and the vast expanse of the Rockies, I felt an immense sense of pride, followed by one thought: There was no way I was walking back down.
I was going to ride a gondola.
Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion.
