Cascade Summit 09.10.2020
The Night Before
The time is 11:30 pm. T-5 hours until 4:30 am, when my cellphone alarm would go off in my parked car at the trailhead to signal that it was time to wake up. Aislin and I had met a few hours before, with her friend Nicola, and we bonded over a sunset at Minnewanka lake in Banff National Park, our passion for photography, and our frustration with how many amazing things there are to do in life and how little time there is to do them. A week before she had reached out over Facebook, mentioning that she was solo traveling in Canmore for a month and was looking for other adventurous individuals to go on a few hikes with. We had happily agreed on a sunrise hike at Cascade. I had heard many people mention the week before that this was a beast of a mountain with an elevation gain of 2800m taking an average of 9 hours to complete. But, I was sold.
Around 10:30 that night Aislin and I left for the trailhead located just off of the Norquay Ski resort parking lot. We drove in the dark up the steep winding roads of the mountain, the town of Banff glowing brightly in the valley below. Although visibility was minimal, I could see the dark silhouettes of mountains through the dense trees, for a moment feeling like they would swallow me up whole. Instead, the darkness swallowed the tail lights of my car as we drove on into the night.
Soon we reached the parking lot and my breath immediately caught in my chest as I looked up and noticed the flurry of stars sprinkled like snow overhead. They cast a dim glow over the parking lot, making our sleeping destination seem a lot less scary than it had on the way up the mountain. We stood in awe for a few moments, watching the sky grow brighter and brighter revealing more of the galaxy as the night drew on. For a moment I was thankful for the darkness and the beauty that came along with it in this particular moment.
We both packed up our hiking bags with layer upon layer of warm clothing, snacks, and camera gear. I had brought along instant coffee and peanut butter, and Aislin was to supply the hot water and oats. I set up my tripod and took pictures of the night sky while Aislin organized the back of her SUV that contained the bulk of her belongings; the adventure-mobile that had brought her from Vancouver to Alberta. We chatted excitedly about the morning to come, and all of my worries reassured by tales of her past hiking experiences. Shortly after, we both said goodnight, got in our own cars and settled in for a cold and brief slumber, hoping it would be enough to power us up the steep slopes of Cascade in the morning.
The Morning of
I had woken up a few times during the night, once when another vehicle pulled into the parking lot, which made me uneasy since it was 12am. I peeked over the ledge of the back seat hoping that it wasn’t a park ranger come to kick us out of the parking lot. Luckily it was just a van lifer, probably hoping to get an early start on the trail as well. I had difficulty falling back asleep, a soundtrack of doubt playing over and over in my head, but I reminded myself that there was no turning back. I had agreed to a sunrise hike, knowing full well that the first few hours would be in the dark, but I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t afraid, that people do this all the time, which is also true. This would be the ultimate push from my comfort zone. All my fears compiled into one, about to be conquered over the span of an 8-hour adventure. I practiced over and over in my head how I would execute the release of bear spray if we were met by a grizzly on the trail. I felt better knowing that Aislin was an avid hiker who completed sunrise and sunset hikes on the regular, and on her own.
I dozed off once more, only to be startled awake by my alarm at exactly 4:30 am. Without hitting snooze I climbed out of my sleeping bag, changed into my hiking gear, turned on my headlamp and anxiously messaged Aislin that I was ready to go. Surprisingly another car pulled into the parking lot beside us. A wave of relief washed over me, hopeful that whoever had arrived would be leaving for the trail at the same time, if not shortly after us. By 4:45 am, we had anxiously begun our walk to the trailhead, our path illuminated by the moon, until we entered the trees and were swallowed up by the dark. There was no turning back now, but I was ready.
Boots on the trail
The funny thing about the dark is that your senses become ridiculously heightened, and make shadows look like animals emerging from the forest, squirrels sound like bears, with the slightest rustle of leaves or snap of a twig making both of us yell out into the darkness to warn living creatures nearby of our human presence; a defense mechanism for when it's impossible see anything outside of the radius of your headlamp.
We hadn’t scouted out the entrance to the trail the night before, and so in the pitch dark, we traced and re-traced our steps on multiple occasions; the sound of something big rustling through the bushes on either side of us. Upon our last mix-up, we turned back and were able to see another faint light not far behind us, signaling that we were no longer alone on the trail. While we turned around to head back in the direction we had come from, the small light did the same. We kept pace with the light ahead of us for a few moments before we heard a soft voice speak out in the dark, “Are you guys also headed to the summit?” It was a small girl of about our age.
Tash was the hiker that had pulled up beside us earlier that morning. She was a 5'5 timid but fierce Australian hiker who had driven 45 min from Lake Louise to attempt the cascade summit before sunrise on her own. Equipped with only a small bear bell and a can of bear spray, we decided it was best if the three of us stuck together. Finally, we found the entrance to the trail and headed up the mountain.
The trail itself was not too steep but contained many blind corners - not ideal in the dark when you can’t see the bears and they probably cant see you. We took turns yelling GOOD MORNING BEARS into the darkness and conversing avidly among the three of us in loud voices to warn any unsuspecting creatures that we were approaching. When fear sets in, anything becomes possible, apparently including holding a full conversation before my usual morning cup of coffee.
The start of the trail dipped down into a ravine. We heard a whoosh of water as we neared a creek, hoping that no bears were bathing in the fast-flowing water. On the other side of the creek began the quickly steepening incline to get to the amphitheater. We had 871m of elevation to gain before the sunrise, and 2800m to the summit. We were determined.
Up and up we went into the dark. The trail was lined with rows and rows of buffalo berries, a bear's favorite snack. I held my bear spray tightly in hand, finger on the trigger in case of an unsuspecting attack. About halfway up the mountain we encountered freshly vomited berries. My breath caught in my throat, gripping the bear spray tighter as we shone our headlamps 360 and yelled out into the dark. Nothing. Safe to say that our pace quickened as we sprinted up the mountain trying to beat the sunrise.
We finally reached the trail junction just as the sky was beginning to lighten, Illuminating the dark silhouettes of mountain peaks across the valley, through the dense trees, way off in the distance. I could hear the early morning stirrings of birds as they awakened to go about their daily activity. I felt better now, being able to see farther than 6 feet in front of me. We continued upwards and reached the amphitheater by 7:10, just in time to see the beginnings of the rising sun illuminate the mountain peaks in a tangerine glow, sliding down each summit as the sun rose slightly higher into the sky. The air was chilly and patches of snow covered the ground beneath our feet. We basked in the cool morning air, stopping for a few moments to take a snapshot of the picturesque display of colours of the natural elements, painted by the sun's glow in the valley before us.
Tash wanted to head to the summit, so instead of pausing to make the instant coffee and oatmeal we had brought along for a sunrise picnic, we continued upwards through the pines, the trees becoming less dense as we reached the alpine. Shortly after, we had reached a section of scree, a through path indicated loosely by bright orange trail markers and Cairns. We reluctantly scrambled across and upwards, thinking the summit would be just on the other side of the ridge, hidden from view. Oh, what a feeling to be scrambling across the side of a mountain, watching a small plane trace the geometry of the tree line below, looking out onto endless mountain peaks cascading for miles and miles into the distance like waves in the sea. Two hikers bounded past us, effortlessly scrambling over the shale, leaving behind the sound of faint laughter and small rock slides that echoed off the slopes and into the valley. The air grew colder, but we were warmed by the sun, and our persistence to continue to climb higher and conquer the sliding platforms of loose rock that would bring us up to the next ridge.
We rounded the corner and were grateful to find an end to the scree; met by a narrow path adjoined to the thin rocky mountain ridge that separated us from the base of the next incline, the one that would lead to the summit. I gasped in excitement, all of us pausing for a moment to soak in the view of the rolling mountain range below, and pull out our cameras for a lengthy photo shoot. I headed for the ridge to become a subject of an adventure snapshot, illuminated by the sun as it rounded the corner of the mountain peak we had just conquered. Half an hour later we had memory cards full of beautiful images, and bellies full of trail mix, deciding to wait for coffee until we reached the summit which was still a few hours away.
The ridge splayed out into a scarce trail that could be seen faintly zig-zagging up to what looked to be the summit. We set out on our next mission, to conquer the steep rocks ahead. Layers upon layers of displaced rock ledges indicated false paths, leading us to lose sight of the orange markers and create our own way up. This was going to be a difficult scramble but my hiking boots gripped the rocks easily, and I felt a surge of strength and ambition pushing me onwards and upwards. Shortly after reaching an overhanging ledge, Tash tried to climb down the other side and realized we had been guided in the direction of a false summit and would have to backtrack for quite some time to find the trail makers once again.
It was unanimously decided that a quick break and coffee would be much needed at this time so the three of us settled on a ledge to regroup and refuel. We heard voices in the distance, the hikers that had surpassed us before, came scrambling down a barely visible path in the opposite direction from which we had come. Alltrails had said that this hike would be fairly time-consuming because it was so difficult to locate the true trail which was definitely not far from the truth. Additional time was added to the hike based on back tracking alone. It’s safe to say that if we hadn’t seen these two fellow hikers off in the distance we would have begun our descent back down to the bottom. But this new take on the right trail was enough to motivate us to pack up our bags and begin our final ascent to the top.
Up we climbed, the peaks of the mountains below us becoming smaller and smaller, the town of Banff looking ant-sized in the valley beneath us. The summit remained hidden from view, requiring the completion of a topsy-turvy trail around peaks and through saddles to complete. The scramble to the top was quite steep and slippery, requiring both Aislin and myself to drop our bags on the side of the mountain to improve stability. Equipped with nothing more than a camera and my windbreaker, we silently focused on keeping our footing on the scree, each of us fighting our own metal battle to push forward despite the slippery terrain and the elevation change. We reached another ridge protruding out over The city of Banff, and the view opened up to reveal a landscape of new mountains, and emerald-tinted lakes scattered across and endless landscape in the valley below. The East End of Rundle which I had proudly conquered a few days before looked so small from where I was standing now, Tunnel Mountain looked to be nothing more than a hill.
We could see the summit directly above us now, the outline of a few other ant-seized hikers moving around slowly, outlined by a canvas of the clear blue sky. I was no longer cold, but I was starting to feel the effects of the elevation, the pressure in my ears, my coherence becoming slightly foggy as we continued upwards. I wondered if it was truly the elevation, or if I was now feeling the aftermath of a 4:30 am wakeup, 6 hours of physical exertion, and a shot of caffeine metabolized as adrenaline. I sat down in the middle of the trail for a brief moment. Thankfully I was not the only one feeling off, and we decided to stop and weigh our decision to continue onwards.
Aislin pulled up Alltrails to see how much further we had to climb. It was only another kilometer, but within that, we would have to gain another 150m of elevation. I remembered how far we had come, and how far we still had to go to get back to the parking lot, likely another 6 hours minimum. I could feel the fatigue beginning to set in, and we made a group decision not to put ourselves in a dangerous situation that we weren’t prepared for. Instead, we decided to find pride in the accomplishment of how far we’d already come. A feeling of euphoria washed over me as I recalled that my first ever hike had been a mere two weeks ago, and now I had made it a total of 9/10 km to one of the more difficult summits in the Bow Valley.
Changed By the Mountain
I have heard people say that climbing mountains can become an addiction. I feel like this remains a foreign concept until one has had the opportunity to experience a summit for themselves. Some are intimidated by the mountains, while others are drawn to the opportunities that they present for physical and mental growth. The enormity of a mountain challenges your sense of the space you fill as you scramble across narrow ridges, shifting your weight to step on loose rocks without sliding back down from where you started. Time slips away; hours passing quickly, lost to the concentration of navigating across difficult terrain, and the wonder and beauty of the views that present themselves with every gain in elevation. It seems that mountains challenge one’s ability to prioritize problems above others, and stems the realization that everyone is fighting the same battle, at their own pace, and in their own way. As I stood on the ridge, with cliffs on both sides challenging me not to lose my footing, the wind surged, surrounding me from every direction as though to offer support and a sense of security. Arms outstretched, I stood strong in the present moment, feeling the wind whip through my hair, through my ears, drowning out the sound of my own thoughts. I realized, at this moment, that I have never felt more at peace with myself or my surroundings. Nothing mattered except for the challenge at hand; to push forward to the summit or fall back. No thought of before, nor after, only your body and mind stripped down to the essence of simply being in the present moment.
Mountains have a way of making you feel so small and insignificant. “Humbled by a mountain,’ I believe is what they say. On the ground, life has a way of building up until you feel ether crushed by the weight of your own problems, or you feel as though you are superior to everyone and everything existing alongside you. But the irony of a mountain is that although you are miles above everyone on the ground below, your psyche does not feel high and mighty. Instead, you feel the aspects of the social human sphere slip away, replaced by the strongest sense of being empty, but at the same time full of wonder; completely wild and free. Nothing but your feet pressed firmly against the core of the earth, hands clinging to loose rock, leaving your fate to the unpredictability of the elements. I think its the uncertainty of failure, the possibility of pushing yourself too far, letting your ego get in the way of realizing that the mountain is more superior than you will ever be, is what created the addiction of conquering summits over and over again. All I can say for sure is that at the top of a mountain, I have never in my life felt more alive.
The Descent (and temporarily losing my ability to walk)
We sat staring at the summit for quite some time, each of us weighing the decision to continue, internally battling with ourselves to abolish all sense of failure that we came so far only to give up. But we weren’t giving up. We had pushed ourselves way beyond our physical and emotional capabilities, the individual level of comfort within each of us stretched beyond limits. It felt good knowing that I had found the strength within myself to continue to this point, despite legs of Jell-O and running on three hours of sleep. And so, we decided with certainty that we would not continue on, and would instead take on the new challenge of ascending the mountain and making it back to the trailhead.
The hike down the mountain was just as mentally challenging as it was physically. We were on a constant downward slope and were able to maintain a quick pace, however, there was no newness to the sights aside from a few ridges we decided to venture onto for photo opportunities. However, once we reached the alpine, the strong scent of pine from the miles of trees lining the base of the mountains below drifted up with the breeze and made me stop for a moment to breathe deeply, allowing my lungs to adjust to the fresh air, slightly oxygen deprived as a result of the exertion of descending across rocky terrain. In this moment I felt my sense truly awaken, contributing to the high I was feeling from simply being alive and able exist fully in these particular surroundings.
Once we made it down to where the tree cover began, things slowly took a turn for the worst. I began experiencing severe pain in both of my knees, continuously jarred by every step downslope over the roots and rocks of the trail ahead. We still had two hours to go to the trailhead and I had resorted to dragging my feet across the uneven terrain, knowing I had no other option but to continue onwards. Finally, we made it to the parking lot after having hiked the last 2km in silence, all of us fighting internally with ourselves to push forwards. We had done it. I almost cried with the satisfaction of having competed for one of the greatest physical challenges in my life thus far. I opened the trunk of my car, and sat on the ledge, kicking my hiking boots off and staring up at the concave saddle near the summit at the highest point of the mountain where we had just been standing hours before. A wave of humility washed over me as though I had gained a new sense of perspective on life, a new sense of confidence in myself and my abilities, and I could almost feel the fears that had built up over the course of my life thus far, being erased from the depths of my psyche.
Earlier that morning I could have backed out. I could have said no and stayed within the limits of my comfort zone. But I would not have met Tash, or bonded with Aislin, or experienced a mountain sunrise and the teamwork and support of two like-minded individuals, drawn together by a sense of adventure, refusing to be bound by limitations.
Every single one of my fears had been abolished within the span of 12 consecutive hours.
The mountains have a way of making you feel like nothing in this world matters, except for consciously building an existence that never makes you forget how to feel alive.
Back in Calgary I parked my car and sat in silence, exhausted, already reminiscing on the experience I had had earlier that day. As soon as I had stepped out on the pavement, my right knee gave out and ent my stumbling forward into the street with a sharp pain surging through my entire leg. I collected myself and tried to take a step, realizing the pain in my knee would not allow me to walk. I pushed through the pain, and the length of three houses, and 5 minutes later I walked through the front door, trying not to cry about the fact that this might mean no more hiking for a while.
Sitting on the couch with a bag of ice on my knee, I smiled through the pain, knowing that if this was the price I had to pay for the change I now feel inside myself, I am all for it.
And I can't wait to do it all over again.