Waterton Flop
Life’s barely long enough to get good at one thing. So be careful what you get good at.
Rust Cohle
My original intention was to drive to Waterton, spend the night in town, then a night at Twin Lakes followed by a night at Goat Lake with fishing at both. I arrived at Waterton to find its changed a lot in the nearly 7 years since I’d been there last. The quiet little town was full to the brim, standing room only. It was nice to see it getting the attention it deserved, but I was sad to see my memory’s version of it as a sleepy mountain town no longer exists.
When I got to the visitor center to pick up my backcountry permit I was informed that both of those trails were completely “snowbound” and fishing season didn’t open for another week. It was my own fault for not looking closer at the regulations and checking the trail reports. I’m still learning how to do this all myself and sometimes simple things fall through the cracks. I was offered instead, a 2-night permit for Alderson lake or one night at Alderson and one night at Bertha Lake. 2-days at Alderson sounded rather dull so I went with the two separate hikes.
The next morning I hiked into Alderson Lake. I was at my camp sight before noon. The trail itself was somewhat uneventful. The most interesting part was the waterfall at the trailhead. Alderson Lake, in its defense, is a nice-looking lake, but it’s the tail end of a much longer hike that starts at Cameron Lake. Unfortunately due to the large amounts of remaining snow, I could not press further down the trail to sightsee. I was penciled in to spend the next 20 or so hours, alone, beside a cold windy lake that I couldn’t even fish in.
I decided to have a nap in my little tent, it was interrupted by yelling and a banging coming from near the outhouse. I got my boots on and grabbed my bear spray and ran to investigate. I found two young men with day packs and fishing rods attacking the outhouse. I asked what was going on and they explained there was “a huge groundhog in the outhouse” I poked my head in and saw the unmistakable grizzly-like silver-tipped brown hair of a marmot. I told them what it was and to be careful, they have a little more claw than a groundhog. Their tactic of standing in the doorway and throwing things and poking it clearly wasn’t working, I suggested baiting it out and giving it space. They were already there illegally fishing, may as well feed the wildlife too, seemed less wrong that harassing the wildlife. They tossed it some cheese crackers and gave it some space, I went back to my tent to resume my half-hearted nap.
When 5 pm rolled around I got up and visited the outhouse, to my relief it was vacant. I then made myself some dinner of sausage, rice, and beans… it was terrible. I was trying something new and it didn’t work. It sat in my stomach like a cannonball. I walked around the campsite and enjoyed the view of the lake now that the wind had somewhat died down. I then lay down and read a few chapters in my book. As the wind gusts hammered my little tent, and my stomach went from a cannonball to molten lead, I realized I wasn’t having a good time… and tomorrow it was supposed to rain.
As I read, I contemplated my options and considered hiking out that night, I decided to finish my page in my book and make a decision. The last line of the page, in Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, was “The only Zen you find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring up there. Let’s get out of here.”
I can’t even imagine a more serendipitous and appropriate thing to read at that moment. I was feeling sad and alone on the side of a mountain having brought no zen with me. I snapped the book shut and checked my watch, 8:30 pm. Sunset was 9:44 pm and I had 7km of well-marked trail to my car. To hell with it, I’m leaving. I packed with fervor and within a matter of minutes, I was on the trail making my way out.
The entire hike out I had to keep asking myself, did I not like hiking, or did I not like THIS hike? Maybe I don’t like hiking, I just liked the people I used to hike with. The entire way out I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched or followed, nothing sinister, just that feeling you get sometimes. I kept looking back expecting to see something like maybe a deer on the trail looking at me. I arrived at the trailhead around 10 pm and pointed my car home. Apologies to Bertha Lake, I’m sure it’s lovely but I wasn’t in the mood. I arrived back home at 430 am with little more than a yawn on the road.
It also crossed my mind that if I don’t like hiking, that means I’ve spent the last 10 years getting good at something I don’t like. It would make this blog an even more foolish endeavor. I have a big hike planned for a little over a week from now. I intend to go and give this some serious consideration while hiking the Juan De Fuca Marine Trail. This post may very well be my swan song. A story ending with me being chased off a mountain by my imagination. I write this post at 5 am after driving through the night. It feels like an appropriate end since my first story started with me writing in a fever at 3 am 10 years ago, almost to the day. In that time my blog has accumulated about 1 follower per year, several of whom I know have since passed away. A smart man would end it here, but I’ve always been a fool, so I guess we will see.
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