Canadian Rockies

Why the Canadian Rockies Still Matter

During the early 1990s I made three long road trips to the Canadian Rockies — 1990, 1992, and 1994. At the time I probably thought I was just chasing mountains, glaciers, climbing routes, hot springs, and long trails. Looking back now, I can see that those trips were doing something much bigger. They were teaching me how I wanted to live.

I had already fallen in love with wild places, but the Canadian Rockies brought so many of those pieces together at once. There were huge mountains, turquoise lakes, alpine huts, glaciers, backpacking routes, climbers from all over the world, and an incredible network of inexpensive hostels where a person could travel for weeks without needing much money. I came for the scenery, but I left with a whole new way of traveling.

Discovering a Different Way to Travel

One of the biggest things I discovered in the Canadian Rockies was the hostel system. I had camped plenty of times before, and I was used to living cheaply on the road, but the hostels were something different. They were only a little more expensive than camping, but instead of sitting alone at a picnic table after dinner, I was suddenly surrounded by hikers, climbers, skiers, backpackers, and long-term travelers from all over the world.

Mosquito Creek was the first one that really opened my eyes. It was simple, rustic, and inexpensive, but it had everything that mattered — shelter, conversation, shared meals, wood heat, a sauna, and people who were living the kind of life I was beginning to understand. You could meet someone over dinner and end up hiking with them the next day. You could learn about a trail, a climb, a hot spring, or another hostel just by listening to the conversations around the table.

That lesson followed me for decades. It followed me to the Tetons, the Olympic Coast, the Everglades, Central America, South America, and dozens of hostels after that. I did not need luxury. I needed trails, mountains, interesting people, and enough freedom to keep moving.

Lake O'Hara and the Alpine Route

Lake O'Hara was one of those places that almost did not seem real. The color of the water, the hanging valleys, the cliffs, the glaciers, and the alpine routes all seemed perfectly arranged for someone who loved mountains. It was the kind of place where every turn in the trail made you stop, stare, and wonder how scenery could be that beautiful.

The Alpine Route was exactly the kind of hike I loved: high enough to feel wild, rugged enough to feel earned, but still filled with beauty rather than suffering. I have backpacked and hiked in a lot of spectacular places since then, but Lake O'Hara still belongs near the top of that list.

The Bugaboos

The Bugaboos were different from the rest of the Canadian Rockies. They felt more remote, more serious, and more alpine. Instead of roadside viewpoints and tourist towns, there was a long rough road, a heavy pack, glacier travel, granite spires, and the Conrad Kain Hut sitting in one of the most dramatic mountain settings I had ever seen.

I went there with Ricky, and once we reached the hut we met Jan from New Mexico. That was one of the things I loved about climbing and hostel travel in those days. You could meet someone, talk for a while, decide you trusted each other enough, and suddenly you had a new climbing partner. In normal life that might sound strange, but in the mountains it often made perfect sense.

The climb that stands out most in my memory was Bugaboo Spire, especially leading the Gendarme. Even now, more than thirty years later, I still think about that pitch. It was exposed, beautiful, and serious enough to demand full attention. I was not just pulling on holds; I was trusting my judgment, my partner, the rope, the rock, and all the smaller experiences that had brought me to that moment.

The hut itself was a huge part of the experience. Climbers from different places gathered there, cooked meals, studied routes, talked about weather, shared stories, and watched the light change on the spires. I remember the Australians who carried a case of beer up to the hut, which seemed ridiculous and wonderful at the same time. After a long alpine day, that kind of detail becomes part of the legend of the trip.

I also remember seeing names like Todd Skinner and Paul Piana in the hut register, which made the place feel connected to a larger climbing world. And I remember the reminder that alpine travel is never completely safe or predictable — including the story of a snow bridge that collapsed after we had crossed it. Mountains have a way of giving you beauty and humility at the same time.

Climbing with Ricky and Jan

Ricky was part of several of my climbing memories, and the Bugaboos are one of the places where that partnership really belongs in the story. Climbing partners share a kind of trust that is hard to explain to people who have never tied into the same rope. You carry each other's gear, watch each other's mistakes, share risk, and make dozens of small decisions together before you ever reach a summit.

Jan, from New Mexico, became part of that same story. I do not remember every detail perfectly anymore, but I remember the feeling of that mountain partnership — people brought together by the same desire to be in big wild places, moving carefully through terrain that required both confidence and humility.

That is one reason the Bugaboos deserve to be more than a photo caption on this page. They were not just a place I climbed. They were a place where landscape, friendship, risk, laughter, and confidence all came together.

Musical Bumps and the Wider Mountains

The Canadian Rockies trips were not only about climbing. There were also long hikes, backpacks, alpine meadows, and days when simply wandering through the mountains was enough. Musical Bumps, near Whistler and Blackcomb, had that different kind of beauty — open alpine ridges, sweeping views, and the feeling of walking through a landscape that invited you to keep going.

Those trips gave me a pattern I would follow for years: stay flexible, keep expenses low, talk to people, follow good weather when possible, and leave room for the unexpected. That approach shaped much of my later travel.

Three Long Road Trips

The old page simply described these as three long road trips, but each one was really part of a larger story. Each trip built on the one before it, and each one made the next adventure feel more possible.

Thirty Years Later

More than thirty years later, the Canadian Rockies still feel like one of the defining adventure chapters of my life. I have been fortunate enough to travel through Central America, South America, the Galápagos, the Tetons, the Olympic Coast, and many other remarkable places, but the Canadian Rockies still stand out because they taught me more than just how to climb or backpack.

They taught me that the richest experiences do not require a lot of money. They taught me that strangers can become friends quickly when you share trails, huts, meals, ropes, and weather. They taught me that mountains are not just scenery. They are classrooms, meeting places, confidence builders, and reminders that the world is much larger than our daily routines.

The old page ended with one simple sentence: “Been there three awesome times!!!” That was true then, and it is still true now. But today I understand those trips were more than awesome. They helped shape the way I would travel, the way I would seek adventure, and the way I would measure a well-lived life.

The Journey Continues...

The Canadian Rockies became one chapter in a much larger story — one that continued through climbing trips, hostels, hot springs, Central America, South America, field biology, and a lifetime of choosing experience over routine whenever possible.