Late Fall Hiking in the Canadian Rockies

Today is November 9, 2010. In our last blog post, we said that upon returning from northeast Italy and the French island of Corsica, we’d offer you whatever practical info we could about climbing the via ferrata in the Dolomiti and hiking the GR20.

Well, we’re back—early.

After one week of gorgeous weather in the Dolomiti, our via ferrata experience was cut short by an onslaught of snow and icy temperatures. Likewise, after one week of optimal weather on Corsica, we were forced off the GR 20 by lashing rain, obstinate wind, and low clouds (zero visibility), plus looming transportation disruptions in France due to nationwide protests (including fuel-refinery strikes) in response to the proposed retirement-benefits age increase from 60 to 62.

Still, we enjoyed the trip. We were grateful for the freedom to travel. And we learned a lot, particularly about how best to hike the GR20 unsupported—carrying a tent and your own food, thus avoiding the overcrowded huts. We’ll tell all soon, in an upcoming post.

For now, we’ll offer a brief report on some of the dayhikes we completed here in the Canadian Rockies immediately upon returning home. After all that adventure-quashing snow and rain in Europe, we arrived in Canmore beneath a blue sky. The sun was brilliant, the air calm, the temperature a relaxing 19° C, and the mountains not the least bit white. We dumped our climbing and backpacking gear, loaded our daypacks, and immediately ventured onto some of our local trails intending to fully appreciate this unexpected gift from that infuriatingly inscrutable weather demon Climate Change.

In Yoho National Park, we saw nobody while hiking the Emerald Triangle (Trip 52, page 199, Don’t Waste Your Time in the Canadian Rockies). The entire trail circling Emerald Lake (by way of Burgess Pass, the Burgess Shale Beds, the Wapta Highline, and Yoho Pass) was free of snow yet also devoid of hikers. Emerald Lake Lodge, usually a hive of activity, was closed for the season. No tour buses. No crowds. The parking lot, constantly teeming in summer, was empty. Ours was the only vehicle. So we urge you to keep this hike in mind for late fall, when you too might find optimal conditions yet have the trail to yourself.

Our experience in Yoho suggested anything was possible for hikers while such unseasonably warm weather persisted, so the next goal we set for ourselves was Tumbling Pass (Trip 35, page 152, Don’t Waste Your Time in the Canadian Rockies). Deep in Kootenay National Park, Tumbling Pass is among the scenic highlights of the famous Rockwall trail (Trip 89), which we’ve backpacked many times. On a dayhike (Trip 35) the pass is a distant yet worthy destination. But it’s next to, east of, and below the towering Rockwall. So we knew that, this time of year, it would be in shade when we arrived there at midday, and Tumbling Glacier would not be photogenic. What we’d forgotten was that, when the sun remains low on the horizon, shade = cold. We chose a sunny day, but our sacred star was unable to warm what it didn’t directly strike. So while the pass was snow-free, the air was icy. Soon after topping out, we were shivering. We snapped a couple photos, gobbled a snack, and layered up. Then we howled into the wilderness and began hiking out. It was November in the Canadian Rockies, we were carrying only daypacks, and at 4 p.m. we were crossing a frozen stream while still 11.5 km (7 mi) from the trailhead. It was exhilarating. What we saw on that hike, though impressive, was insignificant compared to what we felt. We were hyper-alert all day knowing winter was fast approaching, the sun was descending quickly, and we were utterly alone, way, way out in the backcountry. We treasure sharp-edged memories like this one just as much as we do the soft, warm ones.

Nevertheless, we sought a warmer, softer experience next time out. We hiked to Old Baldy Ridge (Trip 44, page 227, Where Locals Hike in the Canadian Rockies). It’s an ideal late-fall hike, because the trail ascends beside McDougall Creek through a southwest-facing canyon into which the sun shines all day. And the ridgecrest affords a grand view west to the Great Divide. Even if you decline the final, steep-but-short ascent to the ridge, the basin below the ridge is sufficiently dramatic to serve as a destination. As recently as a couple days ago, the canyon and the ridge were free of snow.

Mt. Yamnuska, which is among our early-spring / late-fall favourites, is another hike we completed recently. We encountered only a little, crusty ice and a few patches of wet snow on the back side, but otherwise the route was dry. And we shared the mountain with only two other hikers the entire day.

Our most recent hike was on Sunday, November 7. With the temperature dropping, and dense clouds pouring over the Great Divide, we enjoyed striding around Upper Kananaskis Lake (Trip 46, page 235, Where Locals Hike in the Canadian Rockies). Our friend Wood, the philosopher chef, joined us, so the conversation was as energizing as the scenery. The entire trail was snow-free. If you’re eager to get out, this 14.9-km (9.2-mi) loop is an optimal choice right now.

Though the weather appears to be returning to seasonal norms (daytime highs at or just above 0°C / 32°F), and skiers will soon venture onto the slopes at Sunshine and Lake Louise, the snowpack in the Canadian Rockies remains surprisingly light. Many hiking trails are still snow-free. In addition to those mentioned above, here are other prime possibilities:

Wasootch Ridge (Trip 43, page 223, Where Locals Hike in the Canadian Rockies).

Mt. Rundle, South Summit (Trip 40, page 212, Where Locals Hike in the Canadian Rockies).

From Old Baldy Ridge, we could see that even Mt. Allan (Trip 15, page 88, Where Locals Hike in the Canadian Rockies) is still hikeable. Here’s the link to the article we wrote about Mt. Allan in our Opinionated Hiker column in the Calgary Herald: http://www.calgaryherald.com/travel/Ready+challenge+Kananaskis+Country/3443994/story.html

The crowds and bugs are gone. The scenery is as magnificent as ever. The lighting is conducive to gorgeous photography. The solitude is delicious.

Walk on.

We live in the Canadian Rockies. The elevation of our Canmore home is 4,640 ft (1415 m). Our view extends across the Bow Valley to a long, craggy, 8,000 ft (2440 m) ridge. Out our back door is a forest where cougars and grizzly bears roam. Above the forest are peaks rising 3,000 ft (915 m). Just north of our home, at Lake Louise, the peaks of the Great Divide exceed 10,000 ft (3,050 m).

So it’s understandable why we’ve long believed any North American who truly loves hiking, mountaineering or climbing would have found a way to join our northern Rockies tribe. Whenever we’ve met hikers from the eastern provinces or states, we’ve been incredulous: “Why do you stay there?”

Their answers are unconvincing, because they always cite “family,” which reveals they have no pioneer spirit, and because these conversations occur among our soaring, glacier-mantled peaks-scenery so overwhelming it no doubt weakens their resolve, undermining their ability to explain their motives.

But we understand them better now that we’ve traveled and hiked in the Maritimes and New England. At the moment, we’re the artists in residence at Platte Clove, in the Catskill Mountains, near Woodstock, New York. We’re living in a tiny, 19th century cabin beside a waterfall, above a plummeting, forested gorge. The “kill” (Dutch for “stream”) that created this “clove” (V- or cloven-shaped ravine) remains soothingly audible to us, even when the fire in our woodstove is popping and crackling. We’re devoting our time here to an ambitious writing project unlike any we’ve previously attempted. But we’re also hiking, visiting nearby towns, and reading about the area.

Suddenly our allegiance to spectacular topography seems excessive. We find ourselves admiring, even envious of, the rich artistic and intellectual culture here. These mountains aren’t mountainous enough for us, but they’re beautiful, especially now, attired in their autumn coat of many colours. And we realize we’re indebted to the families who, rather than migrate westward, deepened their roots. Among them were the nation’s first conservationists.

Catskill Park and Adirondack Park were designated State Forest Preserves in 1885, guaranteeing they would remain wild and ensuring public access. These were the first wild areas in the U.S. to be fully protected by law. Though Yosemite Valley was preserved in 1864, and Yellowstone became America’s first national park in 1872, both continued suffering industrial abuse for many years. A national forest system was not established until 1905. So New York is this country’s cradle of conservation.

It was never a tree-huggin’ love-in, however. New Yorkers were pragmatic. Though they cared about recreation, their overriding concern was protecting the watersheds that feed the Hudson River and ultimately sustain New York City. It was visionary. Today 75% of the state’s population resides within a two-hour drive of the Catskills. That’s why Catskill Park, which totals 705,000 acres of public and private land, has 300,000 acres of forest reserve where resource extraction is verboten. That’s also why, from 1907 to 1914, Ashokan Reservoir was built at the foot of the Catskills. We recently saw much of the reservoir’s 21-mi (34-km) length from the summit of Overlook Mountain. That evening, while walking atop the dam, we learned it provides 40% of New York City’s drinking water.

Urban-rural give-and-take is intrinsic to Catskill Park. This is not untracked, inviolable wilderness. It’s 60% private property, houses and business, 40% public land. It’s as much a mosaic as the red, scarlet, orange, gold, and mustard leaves now fluttering and flying around our Platte Clove cabin. This is a “park” in the broad, European sense of the word. It includes villages, working farms, old roads.

We see an advantage to this kind of park: The numerous access points disperse visitors widely. In the Canadian Rockies, Waterton National Park has just one entry/exit. Kootenay National Park has two. Jasper National Park has three. Catskill Park has dozens. We also appreciate that Catskill Park has no dominant, sprawling, crass, commercial goiter like Estes Park, Colorado, on the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park. However you approach Catskill Park, it’s through a sprinkling of quaint hamlets harbouring historic homes, modest B&Bs, and unique eateries. It feels comfortable because you’re obviously very welcome. By comparison, approaching a national-park guard station where you’re stopped by a ranger indistinguishable from a police officer is irksome because it’s intimidating.

A disadvantage of a loosely-defined park, however, is that tranquility is much less pervasive. Yesterday we hiked the High Peterskill trail in the Shawangunks, which guidebooks claim is the optimal place for hikers to appreciate this famous climbing area. Every step of the way, passing vehicles were audible on a nearby highway. In the Catskills, the vistas we’ve attained from ridges and summits have never been without evidence of humanity. A sense of wilderness is attainable here, but not easily, and not for long.

These Arcadian Mountains, once a cloud-raking 20,000 ft high, have eroded during the past 375 million years to their present, modest stature. Today, Catskill Park comprises 98 “peaks” reaching 3,000 ft. Adirondack Park, which is larger than Massachusetts, comprises 46 “peaks” reaching 4,000 ft.

So what startled us as we drove south from Montreal, through the eastern Adirondacks, wasn’t the mountains. It was the trees. We’re still marvelling at them. The Catskill forests are vast and flourishing. They roll over the rounded summits beyond the horizon. We’d always thought of New England as settled, developed, cultivated, without room to lose or find yourself. But that’s not so. Actually it’s much easier to get lost in the gently curvaceous, densely forested Catskills than in the vertical, skeletal, Canadian Rockies.

And many of these trees are immense. It’s a testament to nature’s resilience, given that beginning in the late 1700s the Catskills were so extensively logged, quarried and farmed that only the forests bordering communities and on inaccessibly steep slopes were spared the saw. What’s regrown is a beautiful melange of fir, hemlock, maple and birch that makes the monoculture lodgepole pine forests prevalent in western mountain ranges look like an ill-conceived science experiment gone berserk.

If you’ve read any of our hiking guidebooks, you know our preference is to surmount forest and attain views as quickly as possible. But hiking in the Catskills among all these trees has not been oppressive. That’s partly because we knew we’d be creatures of the forest while here, and partly because witnessing these fall colours is an enchanting, kaleidoscopic experience.

Some 300 miles of trails wind through the Catskills. Singular sights and unobstructed views are rare and brief. So we point our boots toward the waterfalls that inspired the 19th century Hudson River School painters, and toward the edges of escarpments where famous “mountain houses” once provided luxurious, summer lodging to New York’s wealthy elite during the 1800s.

We’ll continue exploring the Catskills next week. If we discover more that might interest to you, we’ll let you know. Already we can honestly say our snobbery has been tempered.

May the forest be with you.