Our dear friend Margaret has a unique skill. Whenever she comes up, we see lots of wildlife—without fail. This time was no different, just, um...better.
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Dave and I always thought that Mount Yamnuska was for climbers/scramblers only. We were mistaken. Let me tell you—this hike was the best discovery of our entire summer.
In the past, a hike to Lake Annette in Banff National Park was as simple as turning up Moraine Lake Road and following the signs to the trailhead. Then access, in our minds, became, well, challenging—or so we thought. Thankfully, we were mistaken.
The trail at sunrise.
The freedom to drive up to Lake Louise or Moraine Lake on a whim is no easy feat. Since most areas can no longer handle the masses that frequent every summer, shuttles and reservations are the new normal. However, Lake Annette Trail is outside the Moraine visitors’ lot, so the dilemma was, how do we get in?
With that in mind, Dave and I made a plan. Our strategy was to arrive at the turnoff before sunrise and, with any luck, get to the trail before the roadblock. The road was blocked; however, gaining entrance was as simple as asking—“can we get in to hike Lake Annette?” Yep, it was that easy.
We pulled into the small dark parking area and waited for dawn. Despite being bundled up, the early morning chill quickened our pace.
A colorful preview of what was to follow.
First crossing.
The hike to Lake Annette logs 7.1 miles (11.3 km) roundtrip, with a moderate elevation (1,300 ft, 400 m).
Sunrise magic.
The term scenic does not do this hike justice.
The second crossing.
Dave nearing the lake.
With lunch packed, we arrived at the lake just in time for breakfast. Dave and I decided the sandwiches could wait. Being first at the lake felt pretty darn special. We passed quite a few hikers on the way down, happily hiking without restrictions.
Lake Annette.
For spur of the moment hikers, this is a perfect way to explore the beauty of the Moraine Lake/Paradise Valley area—no shuttle required.
Like clockwork, Dave and I go hiking, and two days later, I’m angling about the next hike. This past week we were looking for something less arduous—one without scrambling or scree—a forest walk to Taylor Lake.
At times, selective memory can come in handy. In hindsight, we, as humans, tend to block out certain realities while focusing on the overall experience. I find this selectiveness enormously helpful when revisiting a “favorite” hike.
I’m referring to Sparrowhawk Tarns—a relatively short (11.6km/ 7.2 mi) but steep (700m/2,283 ft) climb through a land of fossils and marmots—that takes you to a spectacular view of small lakes, meadows, and surrounding mountains.
View of Sparrowhawk Mountain from the trail.
The day was ours to enjoy with turkey sandwiches, lots of water, and bug spray in tow. Our early start almost guaranteed minimal dust from Spray Lake Road—which came in handy for wildlife sightings.
The trail began on the High Rockies connector trail, leading to a junction for Sparrowhawk (left) and the High Rockies Trail (right).
High Rockies continues on right, Sparrowhawk straight ahead.
About 30 minutes into the hike, we heard a couple below us making their presence known to any bear within at least five miles (hahaha). Lo and behold—we know these people! What were the odds that we would run into our neighbors Corey and Willis on the same trail simultaneously? Pretty slim. Great minds think alike.
Willis and Corey with Maggie leading the way.
Excellent company and conversation took us past a lovely little stream, where Maggie took a quick dip.
We parted ways at the treeline—after taking a moment to photograph a nearby whistling marmot.
Rocky climb begins here.
Marmot
Enter selective memory. Our climb involved a never-ending pile of boulders, following multiple paths leading to points unknown. Let’s say there are many ways to get to the top, and thankfully, the actual trail is much more apparent on the way down.
But the view is worth the effort.
Alpine meadows.
Small lake view from our lunch site.
The trip back was steep, somewhat precarious, and not at all leisurely. Nonetheless, it was a heck of a lot faster than the climb.
Dave making his way down, with Spray Lake in the distance.
Later that evening, Corey texted a photo she took of Maggie and Willis that captured the spirit of the day—serendipitous.
Maggie and Willis in the alpine meadow.
Dave and I have a knack for turning an easy outing into something a little more challenging. Ask anyone (yep, you, Margaret) who has hiked with us—every trip is an adventure. Hey, it doesn’t matter if it’s a quiet walk around Canmore—take a few trail detours, and three miles can quickly turn to six.
Warspite Creek.
We were looking for a simple, scenic hike to spend a Sunday afternoon. Warspite Lake via Black Prince Cirque Interpretive checked all the boxes: easy, short, and beautiful. The out and back route was just over four miles with an elevation gain of 700 ft (220 m). A lovely, soft-padded walk through a lush spruce forest. What on earth could go astray?
Trail just before the lake.
Once at the lake, we opted to follow the trail around the lake counterclockwise to take photos and escape people milling around the entrance.
Warspite Lake
There were still frozen areas near the shoreline—unusual for late June in Kananaskis.
Lake ice.
Mount Black Prince, and Warspite, with Haig Glacier in the background.
Before long, Dave and I noticed a group who had passed us earlier was heading back. Soon after, we encountered a family trying to cross a rushing stream covered with downed trees. Dad scrambled his way across the logs to the far bank while Mom stood up to her knees in the icy water. Their kids stood silently—apparently wanting no part of it.
Nothing clear-cut here.
As Dave surveyed the situation, the parents retreated. The six-year-old glanced at her parents and then at us, exclaiming, ”This crossing is definitely for the young, nimble, and light of foot.”
Duly noted—and ignored. Dave deftly made his way across while I lumbered my way through the icy water.
No trail here.
Bushwhacking our way around the lake on a nonexistent trail covered with debris, fallen logs, and water was a bit unnerving initially but ultimately satisfying.
Bushwacking.
Once through the bog, the lakeshore became easier to navigate. The craggy white rocks surrounding this portion of the lake hosted several family picnics.
Heading back, we crossed paths with an outgoing spruce grouse.
It was an excellent way to spend a Sunday afternoon—detours included.
In the past, Dave and I have avoided Banff's Lake Minnewanka. Memories of crowded parking lots, shuttles, and tour buses have always discouraged us from exploring the area. That is until we decided to hike the Minnewanka Lakeside Trail to Alymer Pass Junction.
Picture this: a bike ride on one of the busiest and most scenic highways in Banff National Park. Pretty sweet, right? Now take motor vehicles out of the equation. For Dave and I, this was an opportunity too good miss.
Eight days in, our first hike lay in wait, with no time like the present to tackle it.
It was time. Two and a half years had passed since we traveled to our home away from home in the Canadian Rockies. With Covid running rampant and borders closed, everyone lived in isolation. Traveling was a risk, not an entitlement. So Dave and I (along with millions of others) buckled down and made the most of it. However, when the border opened last fall, there was no question about where we would spend our next summer.
Still hot here. Yep. A broken record of record-breaking heat. However, the desert shadows are getting longer and the days shorter, so there’s hope.
Labor Day is upon us along with, you guessed it, record heat. However, in Arizona, we’ve turned the corner—it’s September, and October is just within sight. Hallelujah.
“When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad…”
—Rogers and Hammerstein, My Favorite Things
Mountainside wildlife.
This love letter should come as no surprise. Our family’s roots run deep in Alberta. My father was born Lethbridge, and I have memories of visits to not one, but two sets of grandparents.
Close to twenty years ago, we ventured into this little town—this Valhalla. Canmore is where I fell in love with Dave. It’s where our lives came together, and our hearts lie still.
Canmore overlook at sunrise.
It seems every April, like clockwork, the urge to go north sets in. Dave dreams about crystal clear lakes and rugged mountains. We binge-watch all the movies we can find that use the Canadian Rockies as a location. We crave poutine. In essence, we shift gears.
Spray Lake.
What’s outside your window?
Canmore Golf and Curling Club.
Bow River evening walk.
Not unlike the Canadian geese who winter in Arizona, in May, we take flight—only to return to the desert by November.
September in the Canadian Rockies.
But this year is different for everyone. Isolation is not by choice, it’s mandatory. CoVid-19 continues to take its toll on the lives and livelihoods of so many worldwide.
So we all wait, hope for better days ahead, and remember our favorite things.
Despite fires, floods, and global pandemics, Canmore, you will always be our home away from home. XOXO.
It was September 26th, and snow was in the forecast. Not a dusting of snow, mind you, a full-fledged blizzard. Just our luck— we were departing on the 29th, before sunrise. Maybe it won’t stick, I thought hopefully. Think again.
Seasons change so quickly here. Everything seems accelerated. This past summer has been chilly and inclement, with hints of an upcoming winter competing with fall.
sually, when the word sightseeing is used, I’ll turn and run the other way. I know, it’s my problem, but I can’t help thinking of everything associated with it—as in tourists, crowds, lines, etc. So naturally, Dave and I were skeptical of the Banff Sunshine Sightseeing Gondola from the get-go.
This iconic mountain has an illustrious past that hails back to the mining days of the late 1800s. As the story goes, in 1896, a cook for the Canadian Pacific Railway was bet fifty bucks that he could not summit the Beehive in less than ten hours. He was to plant a flag at the top as proof of his effort. Evidently, they didn’t know how capable Ha Ling was. He left at 7am that Saturday and was back in time for lunch.
In the mid-1980s, Canmore was a sleepy little mountain town in the midst of recreating itself, following the closure of its last remaining coal mine. It was an exciting time. However, it was rumored that the action of one unnamed Canmorite would forever change the landscape of this small town.
The Three Sisters are synonymous with Canmore. Originally named The Three Nuns in 1883, it has been said that George Stewart (the first superintendent of the Rocky Mountains National Park) named the peaks after his three daughters, Frances, Olive, and Grace. The Stoney Nakoda also views these peaks as the three sisters, referring to the story of Ĩ-ktomnĩ, an old man who would promise his three sisters in marriage whenever he got into trouble.
We often share hiking stories with our neighbors, Kirstie, and Kevin. Really, the best way to know what you are getting into is to talk to someone who has done it. And recommends it. This was the case with Healy Pass in Banff National Park.