I sat next to a waterfall, wondering how to re-solidify my jelly legs.
To call it a waterfall would be misleading. It was a sheet of rock spiraling down the face of the mountain. A thin stream of water poured across its cracks and crevices, cascading into the gaping maw of the forest below. It was more of a water-trickle.
I鈥檇 found it in a detour from the main path. I鈥檇 plopped down on a rock beside the trickle and stretched my screaming legs. I downed a bottle of water and munched on a granola bar as I stared up at the sheet of rock. I couldn鈥檛 see the top. I鈥檇 been hiking for one hour at this point. I wasn鈥檛 even close to the halfway point.
Sixty minutes earlier, I鈥檇 stood at the base of Sulphur Mountain in Banff Park, convincing myself that a five-kilometer vertical hike couldn鈥檛 possible be *that* hard. As I sat on my rocky resting spot, wondering how I鈥檇 persuade my legs to start walking again, I laughed at my misplaced confidence from an hour ago.
I鈥檇 arrived in Banff with one goal: Climb a mountain. I drove into the resort under the Rockies (which sounds like a Harlequin romance novel) from Calgary after my day-long road trip (detailed in last week鈥檚 column). As I drew closer to Banff, the mountains towered over me, kissing the sky with their craggly peaks. I felt like an ant weaving my way through boulders that threatened to swallow me whole.
I parked my car in a lot and wandered around the bustling tourist trap until I found a sign at the mouth of a forest. It read, 鈥淪ulphur Mountain. 5km hike. 1.5-2 hours.鈥�
As I detailed in my column last week, you have to make stupid decisions once in a while. You need to throw caution to the wind and leap out of your comfort zone. As Prince said, 鈥済et crazy.鈥�
I haven鈥檛 hiked in a dog鈥檚 age. I鈥檝e walked around Yorkton dozens of times, but one long stretch of flatness doesn鈥檛 prepare you for mountainous movements. I wasn鈥檛 in hiking shape.
But, in keeping with the spirit of my journey into Banff, I hitched my backpack over my shoulder, secured my cap on my head, and started walking up.
By the time I reached the water trickle, I regreted my bravado. I was sweating from head to toe. My backpack sagged on my shoulders. My legs wouldn鈥檛 stop wobbling. I was exhausted.
I debated heading back to the base. The return trip, with its constant downward slope, was a strong temptress, especially when I couldn鈥檛 see the peak.
But I shook away that desire to retreat. I started this journey and I would see it to completition. I was going to reach the summit and take some sweet panoramic pictures for my Insta, even if it killed me.
I crossed many people hiking down the mountain as I made my final surge up. Some flashed me thumbs-up. Others told me to keep going. One person told me I 鈥渙nly had another 2 kilometers to go鈥� (which was less encouraging than he intended). My fellow hikers understood the struggle. We were bonded by the climb.
When the woods cleared and I saw the peak, I burst into a run. Maybe it was the joy of accomplishing my goal. Or maybe it was the endorphin rush in my brain caused by extended cardio exercise (commonly known as the 鈥渞unner鈥檚 high鈥�). But let鈥檚 say the accomplishment caused the burst. It鈥檚 a tad more inspiring.
As I stood on top of Sulphur Mountain, overlooking Banff and the vast expanse of the Rockies, I felt an immense sense of pride, followed by one thought: There was no way I was walking back down.
I was going to ride a gondola.
Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion.
