The Canadian Rockies

I admit that I am easily seduced by new places. I seem to inevitably digest different sights, sounds and scents in a positive way, even if those sensory elements are not strictly beautiful, as such. I can't imagine that anyone could come to this part of the world, however, and not be affected by the pristine and stunning natural environment.

(An enthusiastic start there! I'll just back up a little though, to where we left off).

OK. Train back to Winnipeg from Churchill, slow (need it be said?), pleasant, calm. I was lucky to be able to stay with my friend's folks in Winnipeg for a few days, who were lovely and generous hosts. Mr H took me sightseeing, and Mrs H ensured I ate enough to see me through another Canadian winter (and a Winnipeg one, at that!). 

The train from the 'Peg westwards passes through Saskatchewan during the night (caught a prairie sunrise and sunset from the glass-topped Dome car), and arrives at Jasper early afternoon the following day. I first saw the mountains around noon, small, jagged snow-topped peaks on our left-hand side which advanced bit by bit until they surrounded the train. Tucked into a valley not far from the BC border, Jasper caters strongly to tourists, without feeling like a strictly tourist town. I was reminded as I walked around of staying with my mum's cousins in a small town in Austria about ten years ago.

This European feel continued when I reached my accommodation in Jasper. Mr Schwarz, thick Swiss accent still intact, walked me with care and Swiss precision through the safety features of the house, insisting I repeat certain procedures such as window and door locking. It was he who gave me the idea of hiring a bike the next day to traverse the many trails that surround the town. It rained in the early morning and I was a little worried that the Big Bike Adventure may not come off...but the skies cleared around mid-morning, so I picked up a solid-looking machine from the shop and off I went.

Though I don't do it very often, I love bike riding. My rides, however, normally fall into the Sunday outing variety, smooth and flat bike track, no obstacles underfoot, gentle-wind-on-the-face kinda thing. It didn't take me long to figure out that the tracks I'd picked were more likely frequented by the local wildlife, and maybe the odd horse and rider. I rode along the Athabasca river for a while, with glorious views over the river and Mt Whistler and Mt Edith Cavell. I was amazed at the ephemeral skies, how I could watch the gentlest dusting of snow on one mountain, then another, and rain falling elsewhere, all the while standing in brilliant warm sunshine down below. The water in some rivers and lakes has that milky aqua colour, the effect of glacial runoff (I think).

Making good ground along the river, I decided to do the Maligne Canyon loop, which looked challenging enough for an amateur biker. I left the Athabasca to follow the swiftly-flowing Maligne, downstream from where it races through a deep, steep-walled canyon. The trail got rockier and more inclined, emerging beside the river with a steep rock path to the left and steps to the right. 'Oh, you won't be able to ride here', a couple of walkers offered, seeing me perched hesitantly on my bike, limbo-esque. 'It's all steps! But there's some sort of horse trail above', they added. Sure enough, I looked at one of the 'you are here' signs, and there on our track was the little icon of the bike rider struck through with a black line! 'What great signposting', I thought grimly. 'Only include the icon ONCE you're in the no-biking zone!' I struggled, bike in hand, up to the trail and gingerly peddled along the narrow track, sliced into the hillside which was descending alarmingly steeply to the valley below. The views were amazing, and fall was clearly apparent in the tiny red plants at ankle level, and the yellow leaves of the birches. I emerged at the top of the canyon, at a car park with road access to the canyon. The contrast between the well-dressed, elegantly-scented European passengers streaming from a tour bus and sweating, mud-splattered, trembly-thighed Emma was striking.

After a little picnic lunch (food tastes so good at times like these!), I finally found the path (after a process of check map, choose trail, abandon trail, check map again), and biked on. The path descended for a couple of kilometres, but was choked with rocks and tree roots. My faithful wheeled companion maintained a high-pitched squeal of protest as I squeezed between and bounced over rocks, bottom aching. The wind picked up, and blew pine needles and some welcome cooling rain down on me for a short while. At the bottom of the descent I took a break by a beautiful small lake, while my battle-scarred bike, haunted by memories of the hills, emitted impromptu mournful squeaks, much like a nervous tic.

The final parts of the ride, on flat trails under swaying birch groves, and along hillsides with striking views back to Jasper, passed in a dreamy, endorphin-laced haze. I saw grazing what I think was an elk, but which may have just been a large male deer. Later that evening walking (gingerly) around town, I saw the most amazing suspension of sunset colour in the evening sky, a heavenly glow unlike anything I've ever seen before. My travelling heart belongs to so many places, but part of it now belongs to the Rockies.