Hello, this is your Mountain Marauder program. We hope that you will find our presentation precise, bass heavy and just right.
The sun blazed like a titan into my tent on a Wednesday morning, branding my forehead with sweaty luminescence. What does the day of the week mean in the wild? The sky was more blue than a John Lee Hooker
show and the crisp forest smells that cascaded through Jasper National Park urged my stiff joints into action. After a quick dunk at the pump, I jimmied around with the frying pan to fill my hollow gut.
With circles played on the steering wheel, I aimed The Rig down country roads, roaring by RV's with fervor and haste. I passed by countless streams and groves along the highway into British Columbia. Pure mountain valleys on either side were dense, green and unvisited.
I skipped these endless Jasper beauties because I wanted to get to a hike that is legendary in all respects. Mt. Robson's slopes I dared to tease. A trip to Berg Lake and back is like a feather in the outdoorsman's cap. I'm bringin you the ill rendition.
Mt. Robson is the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies at 12,970 feet. It's a natural pyramid of ice and rock with a cloud-swept spire. I didn't plan to climb it, just to skirt its edge, lounge in its shadow and share in the pure high-country offerings, different than any I've ever seen.
A broad hiking trail branches away from the Mt. Robson Provincial Park headquarters on Hwy 16 just west of the Alberta/B.C. border. In the initial portion, it wends playfully in a gradual ascent through a
streamside forest of cedar and moss.
"Cedar?" you say, "those trees are only found in coastal groves, where water rains down in abundance."
True, but Mt. Robson is a special case. It's an ubiquitous, brunt mass that affects the weather by pinching out dozens of extra inches of rain per year on its southwest side. Owing its existence to the brunt power of the rock, a true rainforest exists in the middle of the Rocky Mountains.
After three miles, the amble put me at the tranquil shore of Kinney Lake, milky and glacier fed. A cloak of clouds blithely replaced my sunny morning. Per my agreement with The Man, I hitched up and laid out the tent. The group campsite was basic and unassuming. During dinner (some tuna casserole), I spoke mit ein couple of Germans who precisely brewed me up a pot o' Kaffee. A is so
sloppy, he needs to wear a bib; food on the table, got bears in the crib.
After dinner, in fading daylight, I hoisted the bags and watched Kinney Lake close its eyes. That dude Copperfield hasn't seen the likes of this magic. The accompanying musicians, crashing rivulets of valley waterfalls, played on through the night.
The next morning, I was up early and out of there before Hans and Dieter could even fire up their perfectly engineered Euro-gear. A four hour trudge up countless switchbacks and next to a half-dozen major waterfalls ensued. Bob Dylan spoke to me amid the roaring foam: Where have you been, my blue-eyed son? Where have you been, my darling young one? I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains.
In the last imposing valley before reaching Berg Lake, the trail led me through a broad river valley. The water's
natural course bent across the soggy plain, zaftig and full. It was nature in its full womanhood, with large hips and midriff. I give a peace sign for pert visualizations and for all else that is good.
Finally, Berg Lake hove into view. Let me just say that I could wax poetic for days without success, trying to describe this turquoise pool of nectar. The lake is fed directly by a hulking dirty-white glacier which, from time to time, "calves" off chunks of ice into the aptly named lake.
At Berg Lake, I met Tony and Kristen, students visiting from the University of Edmonton. I spotted my gear in one of the campsites and stretched out for a bit. A couple of hours later the two Edmonton adventurers pulled me out of a full-blown power
nap for some dayhike action.
With Tony guiding, we climbed the steep and perfectly smooth Toboggan Falls. At the midpoint of the long falls, water sluiced over a tight, shallowly hewn rock face. The wash frothed and slipped at a tremendous rate, tempting one to bring a sled. Near the top of the falls, oddly shaped pools passed the water from one "bucket" into another.
We climbed above the toboggan-like run and scrabbled our way parallel to the hillside. Kristen shot a photo of me sipping from an ultra-pure snowpack runoff. Marmots chattered at our intrusion.
I scoped out the rocky high-altitude tundra below my feet. The flora was distinct. Dozens of varieties of plants pushed forth tough sprouts of green, interspersed with vivid flower and woody
stem arrangements. At the apex of our looped hike under the leering glare of Robson, we stood for a few moments and soaked in the unbelievable glory. (Note the glacier flowing into the lake in the photo on the left.)
That evening was spent chatting, the three of us, inside a warm mountain hut built on the shore of Berg Lake. I brewed up some packaged BBQ beef and mashies and peered out at the rain that had just begun to fall, sending fleeting patterns in the sloshing lake.
It is strange. Whenever I get together with good people from another country, Canada being no exception, we always end up discussing, comparing and defending our country of origin. Why is it that we are so proud of our homeland that we would rather criticize the habits of strangers than admit to our own idiosyncrasies?
On the final day, I was out early, decked in full rain gear to get back to the car in a dry state. The first four miles of the hike was shrouded in cloud and wind. I hiked at an amazing clip, squishing and sliding down the muddy trails. I fell several times, cutting myself on some boulders. Please bleed, so I know that you are real.
Later in the day, slumped again in my car seat, I reflected on an awesome trip. I had fought and thrived on the adversarial elements of earth, water, wind and rock. Unique natural hardships are my stirring confirmation of life. We spend so much time trying to remove these obstacles that we forget why physical struggles are necessary in the first place.
The sun blazed like a titan into my tent on a Wednesday morning, branding my forehead with sweaty luminescence. What does the day of the week mean in the wild? The sky was more blue than a John Lee Hooker
show and the crisp forest smells that cascaded through Jasper National Park urged my stiff joints into action. After a quick dunk at the pump, I jimmied around with the frying pan to fill my hollow gut.With circles played on the steering wheel, I aimed The Rig down country roads, roaring by RV's with fervor and haste. I passed by countless streams and groves along the highway into British Columbia. Pure mountain valleys on either side were dense, green and unvisited.
I skipped these endless Jasper beauties because I wanted to get to a hike that is legendary in all respects. Mt. Robson's slopes I dared to tease. A trip to Berg Lake and back is like a feather in the outdoorsman's cap. I'm bringin you the ill rendition.
Mt. Robson is the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies at 12,970 feet. It's a natural pyramid of ice and rock with a cloud-swept spire. I didn't plan to climb it, just to skirt its edge, lounge in its shadow and share in the pure high-country offerings, different than any I've ever seen.
A broad hiking trail branches away from the Mt. Robson Provincial Park headquarters on Hwy 16 just west of the Alberta/B.C. border. In the initial portion, it wends playfully in a gradual ascent through a
streamside forest of cedar and moss."Cedar?" you say, "those trees are only found in coastal groves, where water rains down in abundance."
True, but Mt. Robson is a special case. It's an ubiquitous, brunt mass that affects the weather by pinching out dozens of extra inches of rain per year on its southwest side. Owing its existence to the brunt power of the rock, a true rainforest exists in the middle of the Rocky Mountains.
After three miles, the amble put me at the tranquil shore of Kinney Lake, milky and glacier fed. A cloak of clouds blithely replaced my sunny morning. Per my agreement with The Man, I hitched up and laid out the tent. The group campsite was basic and unassuming. During dinner (some tuna casserole), I spoke mit ein couple of Germans who precisely brewed me up a pot o' Kaffee. A is so
sloppy, he needs to wear a bib; food on the table, got bears in the crib.After dinner, in fading daylight, I hoisted the bags and watched Kinney Lake close its eyes. That dude Copperfield hasn't seen the likes of this magic. The accompanying musicians, crashing rivulets of valley waterfalls, played on through the night.
The next morning, I was up early and out of there before Hans and Dieter could even fire up their perfectly engineered Euro-gear. A four hour trudge up countless switchbacks and next to a half-dozen major waterfalls ensued. Bob Dylan spoke to me amid the roaring foam: Where have you been, my blue-eyed son? Where have you been, my darling young one? I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains.
In the last imposing valley before reaching Berg Lake, the trail led me through a broad river valley. The water's
natural course bent across the soggy plain, zaftig and full. It was nature in its full womanhood, with large hips and midriff. I give a peace sign for pert visualizations and for all else that is good.Finally, Berg Lake hove into view. Let me just say that I could wax poetic for days without success, trying to describe this turquoise pool of nectar. The lake is fed directly by a hulking dirty-white glacier which, from time to time, "calves" off chunks of ice into the aptly named lake.
At Berg Lake, I met Tony and Kristen, students visiting from the University of Edmonton. I spotted my gear in one of the campsites and stretched out for a bit. A couple of hours later the two Edmonton adventurers pulled me out of a full-blown power
nap for some dayhike action.With Tony guiding, we climbed the steep and perfectly smooth Toboggan Falls. At the midpoint of the long falls, water sluiced over a tight, shallowly hewn rock face. The wash frothed and slipped at a tremendous rate, tempting one to bring a sled. Near the top of the falls, oddly shaped pools passed the water from one "bucket" into another.
We climbed above the toboggan-like run and scrabbled our way parallel to the hillside. Kristen shot a photo of me sipping from an ultra-pure snowpack runoff. Marmots chattered at our intrusion.
I scoped out the rocky high-altitude tundra below my feet. The flora was distinct. Dozens of varieties of plants pushed forth tough sprouts of green, interspersed with vivid flower and woody
stem arrangements. At the apex of our looped hike under the leering glare of Robson, we stood for a few moments and soaked in the unbelievable glory. (Note the glacier flowing into the lake in the photo on the left.)That evening was spent chatting, the three of us, inside a warm mountain hut built on the shore of Berg Lake. I brewed up some packaged BBQ beef and mashies and peered out at the rain that had just begun to fall, sending fleeting patterns in the sloshing lake.
It is strange. Whenever I get together with good people from another country, Canada being no exception, we always end up discussing, comparing and defending our country of origin. Why is it that we are so proud of our homeland that we would rather criticize the habits of strangers than admit to our own idiosyncrasies?
On the final day, I was out early, decked in full rain gear to get back to the car in a dry state. The first four miles of the hike was shrouded in cloud and wind. I hiked at an amazing clip, squishing and sliding down the muddy trails. I fell several times, cutting myself on some boulders. Please bleed, so I know that you are real.
Later in the day, slumped again in my car seat, I reflected on an awesome trip. I had fought and thrived on the adversarial elements of earth, water, wind and rock. Unique natural hardships are my stirring confirmation of life. We spend so much time trying to remove these obstacles that we forget why physical struggles are necessary in the first place.
Notes to viewers:
- My journal entry for Mt. Shasta prompted several of Redd Cuestas' friends and family members to write me some wonderfully sentimental messages. I posted them on a separate page.
- The Contra Costa Times wrote a great article about The Rig Foundation. Check it out.
- Finally, I have published a summary of the new open space issue that has recently come up involving the development of "greenbelt" land in Coyote Valley between San Jose and Morgan Hill.
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