The Icefields Parkway is where I run out of superlatives to describe our surroundings. Stunning, spectacular, breathtaking – the landscape is all these things and yet the words feel too ordinary to describe the extraordinary. We meet an American woman later on in our trip who has shared some footage from further along this road on social media; her followers are certain it’s AI.

The Road through the Rockies

The Icefields Parkway is a 232km stretch of road winding through the heart of the Canadian Rockies, connecting Lake Louise (Banff National Park) to Jasper (Jasper National Park).  This road doesn’t just pass near the mountains – it cuts directly through the high continental divide, placing you at eye level with giant ice masses, ancient valleys, and towering peaks.

The views are relentless – you could literally stop anywhere on this road (please don’t just stop anywhere on this road; there are plenty of laybys) and be gob-smacked by the view.  After a while, you just kinda drive along with your mouth hanging open.

And it’s not just the mountains: the lakes are brilliant turquoises from the presence of glacial rock flour, and the road is a primary wildlife corridor too – we see elk on the way out of Jasper, but bighorn sheep, mountain goats, and both black and grizzly bears are also commonly sighted (note, our bear count is still zero).

As we’ve decided not to overexert ourselves today (see previous blog post), we plan to stop about halfway along our route at the Athabasca Glacier and Columbia Icefield – at 325 square kilometres it’s the largest ice mass south of the Arctic Circle. We decide we’ll do a short walk there and just do some other ‘viewpoint stops’ and leg-stretches along the route.

Elbows at the ready!

The thing about viewpoints and stops that are only a few hundred metres from the parking lot is that everyone is at them. Cars, campers, and coaches crawl around looking for vacant spaces and the viewing platforms are absolutely packed. It’s at this point too that I start to get seriously irked at people just pointing their phones at everything and not really seeing the surroundings.

For me, continuously taking photos or filming seriously detracts from the experience and enjoyment of just being. I’m trying to take less pics now or just take my phone out in smaller blocks – like at a summit – so that I can stay in the moment more often.  I enjoy taking photos, but I don’t want to get caught in the trap of living life through a lens – it’s a fine balance, and I don’t feel like I’ve got it right yet for me.  So it bugs me a bit that at our first two stops, Athabasca Falls and Sunwapta Falls, it’s so busy that all we do is grab a few pictures and get the heck outta there.

The Glacier and the Icefield Centre

Ironically, it gets slightly less busy at the main visitor hub – the Columbia Icefield Discovery Centre. Well, except in the entrance hall where everyone is booking or grouping to get onto an ‘Ice Explorer Glacier Tour’ – where you can get up onto the Athabasca Glacier in a giant, specialised bus. I don’t love this; I can’t see how it’s good for the glacier in any way, but watching those buses inch down the steep, narrow road is a sight to see.

Anyway, the Icefield Centre is a good amenities stop. Sitting at over 2,000m above sea level at Sunwapta Pass, and with the katabatic winds sliding down over the glacier, it’s noticeably chillier outside and we get a decent hot meal here – mashed potatoes, meat, gravy, roasted root vegetables – bring it on!

The centre also hosts a fine art photography exhibition. Meltdown: A Drop in Time blends landscape art with environmental awareness, focussing on the rapid retreat and transformation of the Columbia Icefield’s glaciers. The large-format images are beautiful: they draw you into the brilliant blue ice structures, glacial crevasses, and meltwater pools you don’t get to see from the highway, but they also capture the fragility of the ice masses, highlighting what is actively being lost to changing climate conditions.

We head outside and across the road to the Athabasca Glacier itself, which is directly across the road from the Icefield Centre.  We string the Forefield Trail and Toe of the Glacier Trail together which makes for a less than 5km return with 170m total ascent only, though it’s slow-going across the rocky and uneven glacial moraine.  A series of markers along the trail show the glacier’s retreat, noting the toe of the glacier’s position at regular temporal intervals.

Walking past each marker is a heavy, confronting experience. Over the last 125 – 150 years, it’s estimated that the Athabasca has lost more than half its total volume and receded by about 1.5km. Currently, it’s believed to be receding at roughly 5m a year and losing depth of about 2-3m every summer in massive meltwater runoff.  More broadly, studies tracking Western Canada’s glaciers indicate that the region’s icefields have lost roughly 15-20% of their mass over the last 40 years alone.

A low stone wall indicates the end of the trail and even then, the toe of the glacier is some way away, suggesting it has shrunk further since this viewpoint was determined.  We take pictures, but we stop and sit awhile too.

Onwards: to Lake Louise

There are many more trails along the parkway, especially at the Lake Louise end. Wilcox Pass, Peyto Lake, and Bow Lake all come up as ‘must-dos’ in a search, but we’ll need to save them for another trip (there will, for sure, be another trip) as we have two nights at Baker Creek, on the outskirts of Lake Louise, and that means the full day we have there has to be dedicated to Lake Louise itself.

We get to Baker Creek at 4pm on the dot because this is check-in time and we’re ditching the camper for a proper room in a lodge for a few nights. The place is gorgeous: tartan (or ‘plaid’ if you’re not Scottish) curtains, wood-panelled interiors, and bear motifs on everything – felted onto cushions, embossed on light switches, and cut-out from the metal fire pit surrounds. In short, it’s everything I’ve ever imagined from a snug little log cabin. There’s even a tiny balcony with two red Adirondacks so you can sit and listen to the creek running along while you try and spy wildlife on the edge of the forest beyond with the handy binoculars supplied.  Bliss! (Spoiler alert: again, no bears sighted).

We’re sitting having a cuppa when Andy has a bit of a hmmmm. Having passed many signs telling us that parking at Lake Louise is ‘full’ on the way in, he’s doing a bit of research on the situation. As it turns out, Lake Louise really is just that – a lake (and the Fairmont Chateau, of course); it’s a 7.4km drive to the lake from Lake Louise Village itself, or a 4.1km walk. Now, that’s not an horrendous walking distance in isolation, but when you’re going there to hike up a hill you don’t really want to add an 8km return onto your day.

Of course, you can park there, but everything we read says the place starts filling up at 6am!  That’s not a time I want to get up at on holiday and so the next option is to get a shuttle.  We get two of the last three spaces on one going in at 10am that will come back and get us at 3.30pm.  It’s the third shuttle operator Andy checks so we feel pretty grateful to get that locked in.

Lake Agnes, Little Beehive, and the Fairview Lookout

The next day, our bus driver elucidates further on all things getting to Lake Louise. She talks about hefty fines for those who can’t find a park and abandon their cars in no parking zones. Allegedly, this results in your car being encircled in official tape which has to be ‘officially removed’ when you pay the fine – further (bigger) fines result if you break the tape yourself. Apparently, lots of people riskily abandon their cars because they get to the lots, find them full and immediately get turned around again – there’s a ‘no waiting for spaces’ situation and it’s very well-controlled.

She tells us too that lots of people hire bikes rather than paying for the shuttle as it’s a bit cheaper.  However, it’s a decent up and over from the village to the lake, and the people who hire bikes don’t always seem to be the most fit and regular of cyclists. Cue lots of wobbling all over a narrow road where tour coaches inch past each other – a dangerous situation all round.

Just as we’re thinking this is all hyperbole, we pass a few weaving cyclists and arrive in the very clearly full car park, which also contains our drop off zone. We hop off the bus and amble happily down the path to the lake.  As we round the corner onto the lakefront promenade, we are greeted by an absolute sea of people – and I mean hundreds. Selfie sticks, phones, cameras – everyone is trying to take pictures from every angle – across the lake to the Victoria Glacier, and then 180 degrees in the opposite direction, the famous Fairmont Chateau itself.

Lake Louise was named in honour of the fourth daughter of Queen Victoria, in 1884. The Chateau was built by the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR) in 1890 to attract wealthy clientele (and thus recoup some of the cost of the CPR). The combination of the neon-turquoise lake, a dramatic hanging glacier, and the grand historic castle-like hotel is practically custom-built for viral photograph and so I didn’t expect this stop to be one where we could sit and enjoy a quiet moment at the water’s edge.  But this is a level of craziness I didn’t anticipate.  We get onto the path for our planned hike as quickly as possible.

The hike isn’t a quiet trail by any means either, but it isn’t Tongariro Crossing level busy.  People are well-spaced out and so it’s an enjoyable walk.  The terrain is easy-going; it is a well-packed dirt track through the trees, but it’s a steady incline too.  It’s another bright and warm day, so the forest shade of spruce and fir is welcome.

At nearly 3km, the trees part at Mirror Lake, a tranquil alpine pond that sits directly under the towering rock walls of Big Beehive. We stop for a quick snack here before continuing on. The track becomes more rugged, steepening through a series of switchbacks before arriving at Lake Agnes, nestled in a striking alpine cirque, framed tightly by the jagged peaks of Mounts Whyte and Niblock.  It’s a stunning spot for lunch, which, I am glad to say, we brought with us because this is also the site of the historic and extremely popular Lake Agnes Tea House – and the queue for freshly baked goods and steaming pots of tea is very, very long. If standing in a queue for 15 minutes isn’t your idea of a good time, do like we did and BYO.

After a leisurely lunch in the sun, we hike up the last 1km of the trail to Little Beehive.  The alpine larches thin as we climb, and we catch glimpses of Lake Louise and the Chateau as we go.   On reaching the summit (2,205m above sea level), we’re met with expansive views over the lake and all the way down the valley, as well as closer peaks like Big Beehive and Mount Fairview.  We’re far from alone up here (though it’s much quieter than Lake Agnes as many people just go as far as the Tea House) but everyone has spread out along the sprawling rocky viewpoint, and we find an isolated spot to sit and appreciate the views before heading back down the track.

But the day isn’t over yet!  When we get back to the lake, we still have an hour and a bit before the shuttle returns and we sure as hell aren’t going to hang amongst the lakefront crowds for that length of time. Andy suggests we add on the 2km Fairview Lookout Trail to fill the time. This short, sharp track is a solid workout for the lungs and legs – especially after the 10km return of the Little Beehive route – but the views are worth it. On the lake, bright red canoes contrast sharply with the turquoise water, and the Chateau sits on the shore with Little Beehive behind.

This is, however, another jam-packed viewing platform as it’s a bit of an Insta-famous view so unfortunately it is another ‘quick pics and leave’ location.  But having had plenty of views from the top of Little Beehive all to ourselves, this time, I’m not that bothered.

Next Stop, Banff…

As it turns out, nobody is really all that concerned about bear attacks; it’s the elk you’ve got to watch out for.

“Yeah, the bears tend to ignore you; they’re more focussed on finding food.  But the elk will give you a little chase if you get too close.  I’m more scared of the elk.”  

This from the Australian lad working for Parks Canada who checks us in at Whistler’s Campground, Jasper.  As you know, ‘Straya has more than its fair share of deadly creatures, so this is saying something.

Elk: Actually Everywhere

It’s September so we’re right in the middle of elk mating season, or ‘the rut’, where mature males (bulls) compete to control groups of females (cows).  Dominant bulls herd up to 20 cows in a ‘harem’, constantly defending them from rival males.  To attract cows, bulls scrape their antlers on trees, dig up dirt with their hooves, and wallow in mud soaked with their own urine to coat themselves in pheromones that signal strength and readiness to mate.  Cows are attracted by the size of a bull’s antler rack and the strong scent from the wallow, both signalling that the male is of prime age and vigour.

Then there’s the ‘bugling’. Bulls produce a high-pitched call that transitions into a low grunt which serves to announce dominance, establish territory, and keep the harem grouped together. It’s a weird noise, somewhat incongruous with a 400kg animal. Think less brass instrument, more somewhere between a scream and a whistle (personally, I think there’s a little bit of velociraptor in there). The ladies love it; a bull’s ability to maintain intense bugling over days signals top physical condition and high testosterone levels.

Unlike the bears, the elk are well and truly out and about – and all over this campsite. We hear them bugling somewhere around the site perimeter and when Andy opens the camper door the next morning four cows dart past. In the evening, we are walking to one of the sinks at the washroom building, arms laden with dinnerware, and a big bull raises its head from the blonde grasses next to the path we’re on. We are too close. He fixes us with the stink eye and we back away until he decides to move along.

A Landscape Shaped by Wildfire

In summer 2024, lightening ignited wildfires in Jasper National Park. By autumn, 327 sq km of the park had been burned, including one third of the Jasper townsite (just over a quarter of the overall park in total so a heck of a lot). Whistler’s campground has just re-opened this year. We’re surrounded by the charred black skeletons of pines and firs, trees which burn intensely, and the pale grey trunks of aspen and birch which carry more moisture and less flammable resins, meaning wildfires often scorch the tree without charring the bark.

In the fading light, the site has a slightly eerie quality but the bareness has its benefits: sitting by the campfire at twilight, we see the elk prancing the outskirts of the site and hear their haunting calls; we watch Canadian geese fly in V-formation across the wide-open sky, honking comedically as they come in to land; and the stars, well, the stars are stupendous. Andy takes some slow exposures of the night sky on the DSLR, and the images capture more light than dark.

Jasper town itself is rebuilding, but that hasn’t kept the tourists away. It is an intense little place, but pleasingly it has a massive (free) car park just for RVs at one end of town, lots of places to dine out, and two laundromats. (I mention the laundromats as we subsequently experience a laundromat drought and there’s a mild (and needless) ‘clean undies’ panic on my part – but in Jasper I decide I’m not compromising adventures for laundry).

One mild inconvenience worth bearing in mind: there are four gas stations in Jasper – and they are all in Jasper. As in right on the main thoroughfare through town. At all hours of day, they are jam-packed. And if you’re driving the Icefields Parkway to Lake Louise (as we are) then it’s the last place to fuel up for a while. You have no choice but to gingerly ease your way into the gas station, inconveniencing people on the pavements to not block a lane of traffic, or to block a lane of traffic to avoid running people over on the pavements. Also, the gas stations aren’t a one-way system and the RV to regular-sized car ratio is high, so there ain’t a lot of room. It is chaos. It is testament to Andy’s cool, calm and collected nature that he manages to do a three-point turn on the forecourt and back up to the pump.

Pyramid and Patricia: Jasper Town Lakes

There are so many hikes to choose from in Jasper. We’re here for three nights, though we get in late on that first night due to the Mount Robson hike, and we’ve got the whole Icefields Parkway to drive the day we leave so that leaves two full days here.

We’re tired on our first day and Andy’s done a lot of driving, so we decide we’ll stick close to town. It’s a stunningly warm day that later becomes quite hot (honestly, it goes from 8 degrees to 28 degrees  – the temperature swings in his part of Canada are wild!). We walk up the trails that take us to Patricia and Pyramid Lakes. There’s a cute little shuttle that can take you up and down the road here, but it only takes cash.  The hike from the town is a 12km return and 600m of ascent which isn’t insane, but it’s worth bearing in mind.

In places, the trail runs parallel to the road, but you can also choose your own adventure as there are dual-use mountain bike tracks that weave their way back and forth across the Pyramid Bench. The terrain is mainly packed dirt with exposed roots and some loose gravel.

We pass in and out of cool forests of trembling aspen, lodgepole pine, and Douglas fir.  Crickets buzz and snap alongside us in the bright sunshine.  The trail first takes us past Patricia Lake before continuing on to Pyramid Lake, though Pyramid Mountain forms the panoramic backdrop to both lakes. The mountains and their colours reflect crisply in the waters, disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the wake of a gliding canoe.

It’s quiet up here and many people have clearly settled in for the long-haul on such a tremendously bright day.  Couples push canoes and kayaks away from the tiny beach and paddle lazily across the lake; others position themselves on benches along the floating dock, keeping one beady eye on the prime real estate that is the iconic bright red Adirondack chairs.  We watch the people watching the people and take in those 180-degree views, munching on our packed lunch of bananas and Cliff bars. The strong sun, in the end, is the catalyst for movement, and so we give up our pretty spot on the dock and start our slow meander back to town.

The Maligne Valley ‘Must-do’

We’re up early the next day to tackle a hike at Maligne Lake.  The visitor guide that came with our National Parks entrance pass has warned us that ‘this is a high-traffic site with limited parking’ so we pretty much roll out of bed and start driving. I’ve made overnight oats so we can have breakfast as soon as we arrive at the lake, though I pray all the way up the winding 48km road that they survive the journey – we don’t have clingwrap and so the brimming bowl has the rest of the fridge items packed around it to keep it level on the shelf. (By this point, we’ve got previous where fridge mishaps are concerned; forgetting to secure the fridge door with the latch mechanism, we opened the camper door on one occasion to find a carpet of cherry tomatoes and blueberries on the floor of the van).

I need not have worried; the overnight oats are nearly frozen – much like my fingers at 1,690m above sea level as we discover the lake is. Having breakfast at a spot overlooking the lake is out of the question; we get into the back of the van and turn the heating up full blast, a cup of tea providing some welcome warmth to our hands through the thin plastic cups.

Once we’ve put on a few more layers, we emerge from the van and shoulder our packs.  Though it’s only 8am there are already several busloads of tourists ambling about on the foreshore, waiting to board the first boat cruise of the day. The short cruise is the major drawcard for most tourists; Spirit Island, a small tree-covered peninsula tucked near the centre of the lake and surrounded by towering mountain peaks, is one of the most photographed and iconic vistas in all of Canada.

Maligne Lake itself is the largest natural, glacier-fed lake in the Canadian Rockies.  Spanning approximately 22km in length, its intense azure-blue waters ringed by dramatic snow-capped peaks and glaciers, it is a truly striking location. The surrounding valley provides a multitude of hiking options from low elevation walks through subalpine forests, to the 44km Skyline Trail, one of the most celebrated multi-day backpacking routes in Jasper National Park. We opt for one of the longer day-hikes – the Bald Hills Trail – a steep climb that opens up into a sweeping panoramic vista over the lake and provides 360-degree views of the surrounding mountain ranges.

According to the visitors’ guide, bears and moose love the Maligne Valley.  One of the low elevation trails the Bald Hills Trail intersects with is called Moose Lake Trail – so called because moose are often seen there. Additionally, at the start of the trail we’ve chosen, there are lots of signs saying that ‘bear encounters are likely’ – not just possible, likely – and we should specifically watch out for them grazing on berries along the edge of the trail. I’ve got the bear spray holster on my waist so I guess we’re as prepared as we can be.

The trail starts off broad under a canopy of trees, on terrain of well-packed earth.  It’s not terribly steep at the outset but demanding enough that we’re already working up a bit of heat and we need to stop and strip off some layers. There are plenty of other hiking parties on the trail and they do the same; the day is warming up, and shafts of sunlight filter through the branches of pine and spruce.

A few kilometres along, and we’re presented with the ‘straight up’ or ‘gradual ascent’ option. Preferring a loop walk, we opt for the more demanding route so we can take the more gentle, easier-on-the-knees, path back down.  The path becomes single-file and steep; the tree-roots underfoot creating more challenging terrain.

Eventually, the forest thins and dramatic views begin to open up as we climb.  We can see the alpine loop that traverses a series of open, grassy round-topped hills, but we aim for the true summit first, standing at nearly 2,300m. When we get to the ridgeline the wind picks up, and by the time we reach the summit we are putting our layers back on. We find a well-sheltered spot on which to have our lunch whilst overlooking Maligne Lake, framed by the jagged limestone peaks of Mount Samson, Mount Warren, and other snow-capped mountains. The view is breathtaking.

At this point, we have our first wildlife encounter of the day – no bears, not moose, but a golden-mantled ground squirrel, who is on a mission to get some lunch. He gets inches away from my sandwich before he darts between the rocks, only to appear whack-a-mole style from some other hole.  It’s entertaining and very cute, but he’s a persistent little devil; eventually I stand up to finish my lunch, and he moves on to another group.

After lunch, gone is the desire to walk the alpine loop; we figure out that it’s a more than 14km return walk and according to my watch, there’s been over 900m of ascent. This isn’t ‘as advertised’ in the National Park Visitor Guide which advises 600m of ascent and a 9-13km return, dependent on the route you take.  As anyone in our road cycling group will tell you, I get a bit cranky when things get longer than planned and so I can’t bear adding even more distance by taking the gentler way down (by this point I’m mistrustful of anything I’ve read, and my risk-averse nature means the guiding principle swiftly becomes ‘go with what you know’).

My knees are complaining by the end of it, but I have no regrets. It is a marvellous walk, with views which are truly stupendous, and it’s a fitting way to end our time in Jasper.

We’ll take it easy on our drive down the Icefields Parkway…

Next Stop, Lake Louise

Andy and I are not spontaneous people, and I’m unapologetic about that. We’re not boring, but to those who live a bit more spur-of-the-moment perhaps we come across as inflexible. We’re planful people who like to know what we’re doing when, and as far in advance as possible. When it comes to travel, we don’t plan out every minor detail, but generally we’ll always have a rough idea of the shape the day will take with the things we don’t want to miss out on booked well in advance.

Every so often though, we live a day that becomes so much better than originally planned, because we pivot. This was one of these days, and so though we didn’t overnight at Mount Robson, it deserves its own post because it turned into such a truly awesome day.

A Lazy Start

It’s a 320km (or 4 hour) drive to Jasper. We don’t wake particularly early and we’re not yet slick at what I’m calling ‘van admin’, doing all the bits and bobs to pack up the camper and leave a site. We plan to stop in Clearwater for brekkie before hitting the road, and we’re conscious of the time zone change ahead, losing one hour as we cross the provincial border between British Columbia and Alberta. Additionally, we need groceries, fuel, and a lunch stop somewhere.  A half hour leg stretch on that journey is probably all we have time for if we don’t want to be overtired and cranky by dinner time. In short, a rather prosaic day, in the grand scheme of the Rockies Roadie, awaits.

But we take everything at a rather leisurely pace this morning. It’s day seven of the big trip, and what Andy calls ‘the unclenching’ ( when you finally start to relax on a holiday) has begun.  In Clearwater town, we’re unperturbed by the out-the-door queue at Wild Flour bakery. The elimination of the option to have a filling and balanced sit-down meal (due to the overall busyness of the place) doesn’t bother us either. We opt for some baked goods: a pumpkin scone, a cheese scone, a cinnamon scroll, and a banana and cranberry cookie. We sit outside the café in the early morning sun, appraising our bready breakfast, and catching snatches of conversation between the friendly local mechanic and some tourists with car trouble, at the garage next door.  It’s 10.30am by the time we hit the road.

On Canadian Roads & Rest Stops

Allow me a brief segue here, friends, to talk about some of the more mundane features of a Canadian Roadie.

The roads are, in general, excellent. Even leaving Vancouver, and with all the roadworks underway (my theory is that September is the season where Canada fixes everything up for Winter, post the impact of the Summer hordes) traffic ain’t even a thing. However, roundabouts ain’t a thing either. There’s one at the Clearwater junction which seems to operate quite well, but Canadians are big fans of crossroads and 4-way stop signs at intersections (we’re still not super-clear on the rules of ‘who gets to go’ when we meet one of these, but everyone seems to ‘go’ in the order they arrive at the junction in – it works).

I’m a fan of the ‘variable speed corridor’: there’s no default speed limit indicated; instead, the speed limit is altered based on the conditions that day, appearing on digital signage only.

What Canada doesn’t do so well is public toilets. As you’re no doubt aware, there are some big distances between certain towns and cities. Signage often advises you to fuel up your vehicle, but you should absolutely take advantage of café and restaurant washroom facilities when you ‘fuel up’ yourself as public toilets range from hard-to-find, to non-existent, to ‘pit toilets’ at highway ‘rest areas’. A pit toilet is a long drop, and just like being in the NZ backcountry, it’s an absolute lottery as to how stanky or clean these are. I got one on a day where it had just been cleaned as I was hit with the smell of bleach and woodchip when I entered. But most of the time, I haven’t been so lucky.

So, if you’re driving long distances, do yourself a favour: be ‘a paying customer’ – buy something, anything (though probably not the weak-ass coffee) – and use the rest room before you hit the road.

Mount Robson: An Awesome Sight

We’re on the lookout for Mount Robson, the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies, standing at an elevation of 3,954m. Living in New Zealand these past 13 years, we’ve become a bit used to spectacular scenery (though we do make an effort to stay mindful in the presence of it) but I can quite honestly say I experience a moment of true awe as we round a corner of the Yellowhead Highway and Mount Robson appears right in front of us.

It is truly striking. The highway is roughly 850m above sea level so over 3,000m of unbroken, vertical mountain fills the windshield; an uninterrupted wall of rock and ice, the massive South Face rises steeply, its heavily glaciated summit looming directly above the green forested valley.

We stop for lunch at the café next to the visitor centre, taking the time to examine old monochrome pictures of climbers and skiers, and read about the history of the mountain.

A Brief History

Mount Robson was given its English name around 1865 to honour Colin Robertson, an influential fur trader with the Hudson Bay Company, instrumental in directing trade routes through the Yellowhead Pass in the early 19^th century. Long before European fur traders arrived, the indigenous Shuswap people called the mountain Yuh-hai-has-kun, which translates as ‘The Mountain of the Spiral Road’, referencing its distinct layered horizontal rock strata.

Due to frequent rockfall, severe weather, and steep ice faces, the mountain earned a reputation as an almost unclimbable peak with several unsuccessful attempts to summit in the early 20^th century. The official first ascent occurred on 13 August 1913 by Austrian-born mountain guide Conrad Kain, alongside Canadian Alpine Club members Albert MacCarthy and William Foster who reached the summit via the northeast face. Kain spent hours cutting over 600 steps into the steep, hard ice to bring the team up what is now known as the Kain Face.

The first ski descent, in comparison, was fairly recent. Mount Robson is considered one of extreme ski mountaineering’s ultimate challenges due to exposed cliff bands, wild ice formations, and objective danger.  The giant North Face was skied for the first time in 1995 (by Ptor Spricenieks and Troy Jungen) but the South Face remained un-skied until just last year (2025). Canadian ski mountaineer Christina Lustenberger and French skier Guillaume Pierrel completed the historic first ski descent via ‘The Great Couloir’, requiring a multi-day effort, steep technical skiing, and seven rappels over exposed cliff bands. (Andy and I watched a 40 minute documentary of this back in June this year; it was a 10-year passion project for those guys to achieve this incredible feat).

The Unplanned Hike

We visit the viewing platform to take some pictures. It’s a bluebird day and the wedge-shaped mountain contrasts sharply against the sky. It’s too short a time to spend in the presence of such an awesome peak but the shortest hike from the trailhead that gets you to anywhere of note (to Kinney Lake) is a 10km return with around 300m of ascent. We agree we’ll just go for that half hour leg stretch as planned. We’ve got the hiking boots on, but we’re not dressed for it otherwise in our cotton shorts and t-shirts.

But we storm uphill over 2km in half an hour, and we keep on going because the terrain is easy, the energy is high, and the powerful Robson River rushes and gushes alongside us all the way. Fed directly by meltwater from the Berg and Mist glaciers, the Robson is milky turquoise in colour due to the glacial flour (suspended rock dust) it carries. It’s a fast-moving torrent filled with white-washing rapids, boulder-strewn drops, and steep chutes. It is spectacularly framed against the dense green cedar, hemlock, and fir forests, over which Mt Robson presides.

Kinney Lake, when we get there, has the same pale turquoise hue. Other than the ripples and splashes from a few shivering swimmers, the lake is perfectly still, reflecting the surrounding mountain peaks and green forests in crisp detail.  As well as Mount Robson, the glaciated peak of Whitehorn Mountain and Cinnamon Peak make up the wide alpine panorama across the lake. We spend some time here, taking in the wonder of it all under the full sun of the afternoon.

But we know we have to get back on the road. We make our way downhill, filtering in behind a group of fully-loaded multi-day hikers who have come from further up the Berg Lake Trail (the route to Kinney Lake is but a sub-section of this).  There are campgrounds roughly every 5k to Berg Lake (22km from the trailhead), where icebergs calve directly into the turquoise water from Berg Glacier. The newly constructed Robson Pass Hut (operated by the Alpine Club of Canada) accommodates but 12 people, and beds book out very far in advance when reservation windows open for the summer season.  Maybe this is the reason for so many mountain bikers on the track as well; 22km is a long way on foot but there and back again on a bike isn’t so bad.

The sheer joy of the group we’re following is palpable.  As bikers bounce their fatties down the hill, we vow we’ll come back.

Next Stop, Jasper

 “Yeah, could you drop in at my place and take some elk outta the freezer because I want to make burgers and apparently nobody is answering the phone there…”.

The lad behind the counter at Wells Gray Outfitters is on his cell when we open the door but he raises his chin to acknowledge us. We mooch around the store; a warmly-lit log cabin jam-packed with the finest of mountain bike and outdoor gear.

“What can I do for you fine folks?” he asks when he finishes his call.

We tell him we’re here to buy bear spray. We haven’t seen it on the shelves of the stores, campground shops, or visitor centres but we’ve been pointed in his direction.

A Lesson on Bear Spray

There’s a good reason it’s not on the shelves: as it turns out, bear spray is more of a ‘behind-the-counter’ product because it’s classed as a weapon.  On buying it, you supply your personal details and sign a waiver. The waiver is to protect both the retailer and the purchaser: if the purchaser ends up getting attacked by a bear anyway or injures themselves with the product, then the waiver indemnifies the retailer. And if the purchaser passes the bear spray onto someone else, they’re similarly indemnified. (Being a weapon, you can’t take it home on the plane with you, so you are likely to pass it on to someone. There are other alternatives such as surrendering it at a Police Station or to Parks Canada staff).

“You do not want to get this on yourself,” the retailer says. “Back when I worked for Parks [Canada], I got some on me one time and the pain is, like, basically the closest thing to getting shot.”

I raise my eyebrows sharply and make a face that I’m sure signals alarm and invites reassurance, for at this point I can’t help but think that I’ll end up doing more damage to myself than any approaching bear.

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “Why do you think the police use it?”

So no reassurances then; this stuff is vicious.  He explains how and when to use it, specifically noting that we should aim slightly downwards because ‘even if you don’t think there’s wind, there’s always wind’ and, well, refer above.

Bears, bears everywhere…

I wasn’t all to bothered about the whole bear thing before I got here, but I’m now thinking that hiking the trails of Canada is fraught with danger. I suspect it’s the empath in me; soaking up the warnings from campsite staff and then reading every warning sign I see, advising on how to deal with a bear encounter.  Posters are plastered everywhere: walls, trees, the back of toilet doors: ‘Be Bear Aware’ or ‘Keep a Bare Site’.  

This means pack away all your food in your camper van or use the food storage lockers if you’re in a tent so bears don’t come round having sniffed out your burgers and bananas, and get rid of your rubbish in the bear-proof bins (I love these, there’s a little latch in a human hand-sized hole on the bin lid to open them). Bears can smell even the faintest scents from up to 1km away.

And when you’re on the trails, make lots of noise so you don’t surprise bears.  At this time of year, they’re fattening up for hibernation and so it’s easy to disturb them when their face is deep in those luscious, low-lying forest berries.

There’s lots to remember where bear encounters are concerned: it’s a bit more than, ‘If it’s brown, lie down; if it’s black, fight back.’ How you should respond varies depending on what situation you’re in: the bear doesn’t see you, don’t get closer, back away and leave the area; the bear does see you, don’t make eye contact, talk calmly to let them know you’re human and back away; the bear starts to approach you, make yourself big, open your jacket, but be ready to use the bear spray; the bear is coming at you, use the bear spray when it’s about 10m away but know it’s only effective by the point at which the bear 5m away. Wait, what? I think ‘always carry clean undies’ is needing added to this advice.

We pay for the bear spray ($75CAD, though this includes a cute little holster with a picture of a bear on it – I’ll maybe keep that and repurpose it for something else…probably snacks) and thank the lad for his help. I brush away a large stink bug that has landed on the can.

“Oh yeah, you can always tell when someone has squished one of those,” the retailer says. “They smell like green apple.  In fact, they taste like green apple as well.  I ate one years ago, like, in high school where someone offered to buy my lunches for a week…”.

I tell him, “Buddy, you were born for this line of work,” and we leave the store with a wave.

Wells Gray: Spahats Creek Resort

The town of Clearwater (the location of Wells Gray Outfitters) is the main hub of, and gateway to, Wells Gray Park. The Park spans 1.3 million acres of alpine wilderness and contains 42 ‘official’ waterfalls, over 200 lakes, and over 250km of hiking and biking trails. It’s also home to the world’s only old-growth inland temperate rainforest and Canada’s largest alpine flower meadow. The meadow is on Trophy Mountain which, at the point of our arrival, has been closed temporarily by Parks Canada. This is alledgedly due to ‘a grizzly problem’.

Clearwater Valley Road runs from Clearwater town all the way to a dead-end at Clearwater Lake and Campground. It’s nearly 70km long, but after 40km it transitions from sealed road to gravel. We’re only 10km up the road to our campsite for the next few nights: Spahats Creek Resort, but on leaving the town the vast interior rainforest surrounds us immediately. The forest canopy lining the road is dominated by evergreen softwoods: Western Redcedar, with its wide, reddish-brown trunks and lace-like sprays of foliage; Western Hemlock, short needles on delicate branches; and Douglas Fir, distinctive for its deeply furrowed bark and distinct cones. Deciduous trees are intermingled: the bright white, peeling bark of Paper Birch, and the vibrant yellow foliage of Trembling Aspen, the colour only just having turned in these first few days of Autumn.

Our site at Spahats Creek Resort is amidst stands of these trees.  With Andy still recovering (more vomiting ensues later in the day) we hunker down for another quiet night.  But the campfire roars as it eats the logs and industrious squirrels chitter as they rain twigs and cones down onto the van roof and soft-needled forest floor. The last light of day crowns a nearby aspen gold under a pale blue sky, and the stars gradually appear. Trophy Mountain looms large in the dark when we retire to bed.

Chasing Waterfalls

The next day, Andy is feeling better. We plot out the waterfalls we’ll hit up and where we can do a short hike, nothing too strenuous. Given the ‘wallowy and boat-like suspension’ (Andy’s words) of the campervan, we decide to give the unsealed road a miss. Our plan is to go to the last waterfall at the end of the sealed road, hike the trail there, and work our way back along, stopping off at as many waterfalls as we have time for.

We start at Helmcken Falls, and it’s a beauty. The mighty Murtle River starts at a glacier in the Cariboo Mountains, flowing into Murtle Lake, then out again over seven waterfalls, including Helmcken. Plunging 141m into the canyon below, this is the fourth highest waterfall in Canada. It’s a spectacular and noisy site – both due to the gushing falls and the many, many tourists who are suddenly right there. This is strong encouragement for us to get to our planned hike on the other side of the canyon: the Helmcken South Rim Trail. 

But we’re about to leave and a sign catches my eye: the Gatling Gorge Trail, 8km return. I suggest we do this instead, so we strap on the backpacks and head out. Interestingly, there are no stressy ‘bear aware’ signs here, but there is one that warns of a fungal infection spreading in bats which asks tourists to ensure they clean their gear before entering caves. People, who is doing this? In a country of bears, who is mooching into caves of their own free will?

The Gatling Gorge Trail is special. Another sign at the trailhead had warned of ‘no barriers’ and ‘steep drop-offs’ and boy did they mean that! The trail follows a cliff-edge along a canyon; from the path you could probably roll 10m down a slope and then there’s nothing but fresh air between you and the Murtle River, 130m below.  This does mean panoramic views of the forest and the river as you meander along.

The trail is easy-going for the first 2km; there’s a viewpoint over the confluence of the Murtle and Clearwater Rivers. It then descends quite steeply over a more rooted and rock-strewn path. We hurdle fallen trees as we descend to the river.

Sunlight warms the wide, flat boulders next to the river, where we stop for lunch. White water thunders through a narrow passage of the canyon and it’s obvious why Wells Gray is a popular rafting location too. We see only one couple with their dogs down here, and very few people on the trail. It’s blissful, and we could lounge here longer, but it’s woken us up from the lethargy of the last few days too and we’re keen to get going to see more.

The hike ends up taking us 15 mins shy of 3 hours, and we’re glad that the other stops are just short walks to viewpoints. Dawson Falls is but a 5-minute drive along the road and it’s less than 10 mins to get from the car park to the viewpoint. These falls are only 20m high but they’re 90m wide and they tumble spectacularly over 200,000-year-old lava terraces.

We then drive on to our final waterfall of the day, Spahats, only 1km down the road from our campsite. They are repaving the car park (I’ve concluded that there’s a lot of construction and roadworks that goes on in Canada immediately after summer, and before winter hits) so we have to walk a little bit to get there. It takes us by a viewpoint to The Shaden, a 45-metre cavern formed by water seeping between layers of ancient lava and eroding the rocks. (Maybe that’s where them bats are hanging out). We also catch a glimpse of snow-capped Garnet Peak (2,876m) in the distance.

Though smaller than Helmcken at 73m high, it’s worth the walk to see the thin stripe of Spahats plunge from a keyhole in the rock into a wide canyon below. The scale takes a minute to get our heads around; the trees surrounding the canyon rim are as high as two-storey houses and the canyon is a vast space. It’s more than a little dizzying following the line of white water that threads its way along the valley floor.

It’s a good end to the day. We’ve only scratched the surface of Wells Gray but I think we’ve got a sense of the place. The Park bills itself as ‘the Canada you imagined’; with its vast valleys, thunderous falls, and sprawling alpine wilderness, it kinda is. 

Wells Gray: The Verdict

There’s so much to do here. I’d suggest 3 nights as a minimum, perhaps moving up the valley to a second campsite to get onto the unsealed road and into the wilderness near Lake Clearwater itself. And to get in a rafting trip somewhere as well, if that’s the sort of thing you like. For us, I noticed at the visitor centre that there’s a company offering guided hut-to-hut hikes from 3 to 7 nights which is something I’d come back for. It’s not a place of summits, but the forests are pristine, and the waterfalls unrivalled. I’d love to see more.

As for the campsite, Spahats Creek Resort is excellent. I’m assuming it was the owner who checked us in as she’s super-invested. She’s everywhere all the time, checking people in, keeping the washrooms clean, and stocking up the weekend ‘honesty’ bread and pastry stall. There are laundry facilities here too which is a campsite rarity, we’ve found.

And despite the site being under the shadow of Trophy Mountain, the bear count so far is zero.

Next stop, Mt Robson…

Here follows a bit of a dark day, friends. And as is usually the case on such days, several factors compound.

I thought I’d tricked the jet lag, having used sleeping pills on the preceding few nights to get on the time zone.  However, we’re both awake at a silly hour and sleep evades us until dawn. We get up around 6am with the intention of hitting the road early-ish, after breakfast. On the way to the toilet block, Andy claims he’s feeling ‘a bit bleugh.’ We’re not planning to exert ourselves today though; it’s just a long drive to Sun Peaks – or Heffley Lake actually, the campsite we’ve booked in the area.

We’ve decided today is the day to try out the protein-pancake mix we bought. We soon discover that there’s no fish slice or spatula in the utensils we’ve been given (a minor annoyance, but try flipping pancakes with a big spoon, I dare you).  After that messy endeavour, we get on the road.

Pemberton to Lillooet

We stop for gas at Pemberton, just 20 minutes up the road and we’re faced with the choice of service station or McDonald’s coffee. Now, we love a ‘gourmet’ burger and NZ is full of gourmet burger places so we’re never in Maccas, but NZ Maccas coffee is passable. Let me tell you friends, I don’t know what they served us in Pemberton Maccas but coffee it was not. To quote Lunch Lady Dora from The Simpsons, it was ‘brown and water.’  It keeps our hands warm at the start of the 350km drive.

There’s not much to see between Pemberton and Lillooet, where we stop for lunch. Highway 99 takes us over a rugged mountain pass – steep slopes descend sharply from the road to the river valley below. The mountainsides are all forest: ponderosa and whitebark pine, Douglas fir and spruce; it’s a very green place with only the occasional tree at lower elevation starting to change colour. Pleasingly, the greyness of yesterday is starting to lift.

Lillooet – give it a miss if you drive this way, unless you need to eat. There’s a cracking wee bakery called Abundance though the two ladies behind the counter could not have looked less pleased with their roaring lunchtime trade. Service with a smile, it was not. Banging tuna melt though…

That being said, apparently Lillooet is an emerging wine region thanks to a dry summer climate and long growing season. We see a sign for Fort Berens Estate Winery but that’s not on the agenda today. And Andy says the town is giving him ‘Queenstown vibes… but not Queenstown, NZ – Queenstown, Tasmania.’  Now, we loved our tip to Tassie maybe 9 or 10 years ago, but Tassie Queenstown was not a highlight – as you descend into the town it feels like you’re driving through a massive mining pit, which it pretty much is.

Lillooet gained prominence during the Fraser Canyon and Cariboo Gold Rushes of the 1850s and 1860s, and mining and industrial mineral extraction remain active in the broader area, which is why it has a similar vibe. Travelling east towards Kamloops, as we’re doing, brings you into one of British Columbia’s most active mining districts, passing through a major mining corridor dominated by large-scale copper and gold operations.

The Heffley Lake Stop

We stop for groceries in Kamloops.  Fresh Choice is the best supermarket chain we’ve encountered but after a big drive we’re overtired and overwhelmed with the choices, and we have to think about what will fit into the tiny van fridge and what we can do on the two-burner stove. We faff around too much trying to pick proteins and salads and Andy starts to get a bit shivery.

By the time we reach Lakeside Heffley Retreat it’s 3:45pm – 15 minutes before check-in is due to close. And yet, check-in is closed. There are instructions in the box outside, including highlighted directions to our site. However, the automatic gate doesn’t open automatically (cue running up and down a hill to activate a manual switch), you have to pay for the showers with ‘loonies’ which are apparently just $1CAD coins (we have none), and the firewood is locked up as you need to pay for it in the shop. To make matters worse, there’s a little bar restaurant which is closed for a private function, but that private function is a large, loud group of 20 somethings who arrive about the same time as us, but who have had more than a few by that point. We’re pretty hacked off. There’s a ‘text us if you need anything’ number on the door of the office. I text, but there’s no reply.

But the site itself it stunning! We are right on the edge of Lake Heffley and the late afternoon sunbeams make the water sparkle.  It’s not quiet as the yobbos are still just within earshot, but they are nearly out of range. Andy just wants to sit for a bit, so I take a cuppa down onto the pontoon and dangle my feet in the lake. As I’m sitting there thinking about whether it’s too cold to swim, someone else appears and jumps in. He reckons it’s about 15 degrees and while I’m still deliberating, the decision is made for me – the yobbos appear and their chat is excruciating so I go for a swim and a float to get away from the noise. This should be idyllic: I breathe deeply, I try to find an inner calm, ground myself by noticing the beauty around me, but I’m kind of seething. There’s some kind of noise trigger that’s part of my own neuro-spice, and something particular about young people confidently spouting stuff that’s just factually incorrect.

The lake isn’t warm enough to just float around in without putting in a solid swimming effort.  I find that I have no energy for that today.  (In hindsight, I think if this stop had happened later in the trip I would have got a little 500m or 1km in; I sort of regret not doing more, but I know I had nothing at the time).

When I get back to the camper-van, Andy is fighting nausea. I find various kinds and sizes of wood along the lake and we manage to get a bit of a fire going before we have dinner. It’s about this time that someone from the site replies to my text message and I get some coins from the shower from her, but we decide against the firewood. Andy doesn’t eat much and he heads to bed early, with the heating on full blast in the van as he’s feeling so cold. Sometime in the middle of the night, he eventually has to go out and throw up ‘in the most scenic spot [he’s] ever thrown up in.’  We head to the washrooms, watching for bears but distracted by the magnificent white carpet of the Milky Way overhead. Sleep comes a bit easier for us both after that.

An Easy Morning

We sleep late, and Andy is feeling a little better but not spectacular. The great thing about the campsite is that we don’t have to leave until midday, but most folks seem to check out early. We largely have the place to ourselves, and enjoy porridge, strawberries and maple syrup by the lake, with the sun on our faces.

There are a few trailheads nearby: Embleton Mountain is pretty much across the road from the camp site, and Whitecroft Falls is 6km along the road. It’s a stunning morning and a big part of me is keen to get out there, but Andy is really not well enough for it. I feel like I’m missing out, but at the same time I know I am pretty tired as well. It’s never good when your partner or someone in your family gets sick, but it forced me to slow down as well, and I think I needed to.

Heffley Lake: The Verdict

As we left, I wished we’d booked two nights here. Between the setting and weather, I could have lay by that lake and read all day, getting in and out for swims whenever I wanted to.  I am really guilty of hitting a holiday hard when it comes to ‘doing stuff’ really early on and I’m not good at being still when there’s places you can go. Could I have sat by that lake all day knowing there were trails across the road?

As for the site itself, it’s too spectacular not to recommend as a place to stop.  Just get there well before check-in is due to close.

Next stop, Wells Gray National Park…

Emerging into the light from the sub-ground-level train station beneath Yaletown, Vancouver, the first thing I smell is weed.  I catch a whiff at least three more times in the 800m walk to the apartment we have for one night to recover from our long-haul flight, before we pick up our campervan.

Welcome to Cannabis

It so happens that my Canadian buddy in NZ has messaged to wish me a fun trip. I reply, ‘You folks have really embraced the whole legalisation of cannabis thing, huh?’ He says we should get amongst, just for the cultural experience if nothing else. Buds, drinks, chocolates or gummies – apparently the shops are like Apple stores (with more helpful staff).

Cannabis was legalised for recreational use across Canada in 2018 becoming the second nation in the world to do so (after Uruguay).  According to the latest Canadian Cannabis Survey conducted by Health Canada, approximately 26% of Canadians aged 16+ reported using the drug for recreational purposes over the past 12 months (that’s around 8 to 9 million people) though only 6% of the overall population report using it daily or near daily.  Retailers are everywhere – and I mean everywhere. In every little town – and sometimes on random strips of land in between – the brightly painted facades welcome you. With roughly 3,800 stores across the nation generating annual sales of $5.5 billon CAD, it’s big business.

My Canada Travel Blog

Despite my good buddy’s encouragement, we haven’t stopped into a cannabis store and we’re unlikely to do so. Our drug of choice is the outdoors and we’re here for a more natural high (literally and figuratively) with ‘as much hiking as possible’ planned for our Canadian Rockies Roadie.  18 nights covering 2,500km, book-ended with nights in Vancouver.

This is the first leg of ‘our big trip’, visiting Canada, Iceland, Scotland (family), Nepal, Bhutan, and ideally somewhere else on the way back home to NZ, depending on dollars remaining.  I’m planning to write about the internal journey too; what taking four months away from work does for the mind, body, and soul, but this is my attempt at a travel blog – ideally something that’s helpful for anyone planning to visit this part of the world, and something to accompany the Facebook photos (TBC if I ever get on the ‘gram, folks; your strong encouragement has been noted).

On a more personal note, this is a bit of an experiment. For many years of my young life, I wanted to be a writer of some kind. I took a year out maybe 7-8 years ago and got into writing flash fiction. Often, I liked the output, but the act of writing so precisely was a painstaking experience. However, I still feel a pull towards writing and I want to see if I can find a voice doing this.  Can I write quickly? Find a balance of being informative and interesting? Can I be original or funny? (I’ll take mildly amusing, a wry smile even). Can I put something I’ve written out into the world that doesn’t feel perfect?  Part of this is practicing, and I hope to get better as I go.

Anyway, enough preamble. We’re making nine stops on this Canadian Rockies Roadie. Let me tell you about Vancouver to Whistler.

Vancouver: Just for the night

We’ve been to Vancouver before; a stopover on our way back to the UK roughly a decade ago so this isn’t a go-to post for ‘things to do in Vancouver’. There wasn’t too much thought that went into selecting Yaletown for the night, other than we remembered it was a funky little place with a lot of restaurants.  The agenda was eat, sleep and buy the millions of toiletries I refused to bring from NZ (every kg counts when you’re trying to pack a wardrobe crossing multiple seasons in 4 months).

Yaletown gets its name from Yale, a small town in the Fraser Canyon roughly 180km east of Vancouver. During the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR) in the 1880s, Yale was a major boomtown and railway equipment repair hub. When the CPR later extended into Vancouver, the repair shops, heavy machinery, and maintenance facilities were relocated to Vancouver. The workers followed, and this community began to refer to their new neighbourhood as Yaletown. The area grew into an industrial warehouse district filled with red-brick warehouses.  Today, these have been converted into restaurants, boutiques, tech offices and loft apartments.

Yaletown is a little glitzy on a Saturday night. We see plenty women in kitten heels and strapless dresses; guys in sharp shirts (there are a fair few high-end places to eat). We opt for a cracking Italian called Capo & the Spritz – outstanding burrata and a great spot for people watching at the crossroads on Hamilton and Davie Streets. The cost of eating out in Canada generally is similar to that of NZ – though this is before the tipping kicks in. There are usually options to pay 10% and 15% but 20% is the recommended.

We stay at Level Yaletown. Unremarkable, and clean enough other than I reckon someone has broken a glass in our room and housekeeping hasn’t got all of it as I end up with something sharp in my foot. Cue the tweezers and a hasty search for jandals amongst the 60kg of luggage, to prevent further mishap. (Compression bags – wonderful, though not the undetectable extension charm of Hermione’s handbag I’d hoped they were).

The next morning, we have beautiful (giant) waffles at Nero, just a few doors along from our apartment, and order an Uber to take us to the outer suburbs to pick up our campervan.  We went with Indie Campers who have a whole range of RVs of different sizes. I think we opted for the smallest one – the ‘Up Country XS’. Which I’m going to presume now means, ‘Extra Small.’  Me: ‘Ooh, it’s so cute!  We’ll be so snug in that bed!’ If you’re planning to lie entirely prone for 8 hours, this is the van for you. One flip over and you’re either on the wall, on your other half’s arm, or perilously close to rolling onto the floor. (I’m giving it a bit of a rough time; we’ve had some pretty decent sleep and after Andy Marie Kondo’d the heck out of it, the space works great. And the two-burner stove can’t be faulted).

Anyway, we hit the road to Whistler, our first stop for two nights, just before lunchtime.

Whistler: Parkbridge Riverside Resort (150km driven)

Andy, unsurprisingly for anyone who knows him, adjusts superbly to driving on the right-hand-side of the road, confidently interpreting Canadian traffic and the corresponding rules. We seem to drive in endless loops of highways merging onto other highways but finally we’re out of North Vancouver and heading to Whistler, via Squamish. Once we hit the outer limits of the city and join highway 99 the scenery picks up. The highway is elevated along the coastline; boats of all sizes dot the inlets between the mainland and Vancouver island, and other smaller islands.  The sky and the water compete for the prize of being the most enticing blue. And every so often little groups of road cyclists (elbows tucked, bottoms high) zip downhill, in Vancouver-direction.  The uphills don’t look as much fun, but I get a little FOMO nonetheless. Just in general, I’m excited to get outside.

After a quick stop for provisions and lunch in Squamish, we get back on the road to Whistler (small world: the lad who serves us in Tacofino has just graduated from Stirling Uni, where Andy and I studied and met). We get to Parkbridge early afternoon and on check-on get an education on what it means to be ‘bear aware’ as bears are frequent visitors to the campground.  Despite us both having had jumbo sleeps in the Vancouver apartment, we’re a bit tired by this point in the day so we don’t ask about bear spray when we can’t see it on the shelves in the campsite shop. That’s a little anxiety-inducing for me, but I’m on a bit of a high that we are finally here so I don’t worry about it so much. We park up the van in our shady spot and get some ice-creams to eat in the late afternoon sun, dangling our legs over Fitzsimmons Creek which runs through the resort.

Parkbridge is a great campground. Clean shower facilities, and a great little firepit where you can lift the circular rim to sweep out the ground underneath meaning you always have a dry base to burn the wood on. Andy cooks up some steaks as I try to defend a bag of chips from a cheeky bluejay in one of the fir trees. No sooner do I turn my back to fill our water bottles but the bird has landed on the picnic table and stabbed the bag with its beak several times. Ok, bluejay, your navy-blue quiff rocks, but your card has been marked.

Anyway, dinner is good, and we poke the fire, burning fat logs into the night as the stars gradually appear.

Whistler Village and a Warm-Up Hike

There are a few multi-use trails that run between the campsite and Whistler Village. And when I say ‘multi-use’, the trail signage shows a hiker, a biker, and a bear. Again, a bit unnerving, but there are plenty people on the trail and noise seems to be the best thing for keeping bears away, in general.

It’s a cold day too – not freezing, but grey and distinctly un-Canada, based on every photo you’ve ever seen – but all good, we’ve got plenty warm clothes with us. We mooch around the Olympic Village (Vancouver hosted the Winter Olympics in 2010, with the outdoor alpine events held at Whistler) where just about every outdoor clothing brand you could ever think of has a store. We’re not big shoppers so we’re not that fussed for it, but you could shop up a storm here, and I bet it is gorgeous in the snow with the shopfronts all lit in Christmas lights. We have lunch and head for the ‘Village Gondola’ (there are many gondolas).

The gondola is an expensive thing. It costs us the best part of $200CAD for the pair of us, though it’s nearly 5km long and takes about 20 minutes to cover 1,175m, dropping you at the Roundhouse Lodge at 1,850m above sea-level. There’s usually another gondola you can take from there to Whistler Peak (the Peak Express) or you can take the ‘Peak 2 Peak’ over to Blackcomb Mountain, but neither are open at this time of year.

Outside at this height, it’s damn cold and there’s a good wind blowing. This is not a day for stunning views over Whistler; it’s a moody, misty afternoon, but we do see a couple of hoary marmots as soon as we get outside the Roundhouse Lodge, and chipmunks and squirrels frequently scurry across the tracks. The trails are quiet on a day like today. We amble round the Harmony Lake Trail, adding a bit of the Harmony Meadows Trail. In terms of difficulty, trails are usually shown as green (easy), blue (intermediate), and black (difficult) on trail maps – just like ski-runs.  The Lake Trail is blue and the Meadows Trail is black, but the going is easy in terms of the terrain – earth, roots and rock; I think it’s just the ascent on the Meadows Trail that lifts it to a more difficult level.  It warms me up anyway!

There’s a good 10km (black) trail that takes you up onto the ridge but we need a longer day, more energy, and better weather for that. We do our wee loop and head back down to the village, nabbing a ridiculous dairy-bomb of a hot chocolate from Rocky Mountain Chocolates and taking a few quick pics of the Fairmont at the north end of town. We opt to take the route past the Lost Lake on the way back to Park Bridge. There’s a lot of stressy bear signage, but we see nothing (thankfully) on the way back. The mountain bikers help, I reckon; Whistler is like Queenstown on steroids – there are mountain bikers and bike trails everywhere.

Whistler Stop: The Verdict

This was the right amount of time to spend here for the energy levels, season (i.e., Fall), and weather we had. We’d come back for longer if we had a ski-trip planned, as there’s plenty of big blue runs by the looks of the maps (and anyone we know who has skied here has loved it).

The campsite (Parkbridge) really met our expectations too, though unlike the Australian campsites we’ve visited (our only frame of reference) the central BBQs were few and far between. However, that seems to be the case with the other sites we’ve since visited. What is fantastic (again, the case with most of the sites we’ve since visited) is the potable water tap and the firepits at every camp spot, and the trees that segregate you from your neighbours, bringing a little privacy.

All in all, Whistler was a strong start to our big trip – I suspect sunshine and clear skies would have made it a spectacular one.

Next Stop, Sun Peaks…