Packing for a Mountain Trip

Cartoon by Sage

The trail was getting steeper, the brush thicker, and I was carrying a voluminous backpack containing a two-man tent, winter-rated sleeping bag , blow-up mat and an opulent selection of some of my favourite foods.

Then there was a survival kit, a small wardrobe of warm and waterproof clothing, a dog leash, an emergency radio, a miniature espresso maker, and the usual knives, torches, firelighters, cook stove and the like. I even had a virgin block of Kendall’s mint cake.

The week before I had made a similar trip into the alpine to check out the snow levels. That time I had got the balance of what to take and what not to more or less right and the two-day hike, while not a feat my legs rejoiced in, had been perfectly doable.

This time I had made the error of extravagant upgrading: heavy mountain boots instead of perfectly serviceable hikers, fancy-pants snowshoes with an adjustable clip for steep terrain instead of my dull but sturdy regulars, and many fresh items that were nice to have but definitely not necessary.

And now I was paying the price. My mountain boots were chafing, the snowshoes clips were catching, the mosquitoes were biting, and I felt like Atlas heading uphill. I paused, took an annoyed breath, and stared at the snowy trail in front of me. About 20 paces ahead was Sage, my longest-serving guide. Somewhere beyond that was Katya, the dog. Both were blithely indifferent to my misery.

Sage began working with me when she was barely 21 years old. I hired her even though she was ridiculously young and had large holes in her socks and she had been an inspired choice. Now at the grand old age of 26 she has notched up a degree in biology, and is on her way to a PhD. In the interim, she has also become one of the top animal trackers in western Canada.

A lover all of all things cold (freezing pools, snow, unheated cabins) and many things slimy (frogs, toads and other amphibians) Sage spends her winters in and around Edmonton, the coldest big city in Canada, tracking urban coyotes. Often she is out at dawn in temperatures below minus 30.

Sage and I bicker like family – but we are actually very close. After Kristin, my wife, died, two and a half years ago, and I was laid low by a virulent form of Covid Sage would sometimes phone me. When I answered she would say “Sage here” - and then go absolutely silent. I knew it was her way of letting me know that was watching out for me.

But trying to cash in on past sympathy because I had pigged out in my food packing and donned overly-fancy gear was not going to cut it. When I began to swear and whine Sage simply took out her phone and began videoing me.

Katya, meanwhile, sometimes an admirable bush dog, seemed to have lost her marbles altogether. Catching sight of snow –her absolute favourite thing in the world – she was jumping, yipping and tossing small sticks around.

An hour or so later, after it seemed like we had walked up many Everests, the trail finally began to flatten out. Covered in several feet of snow, it had been difficult to navigate but I eventually got my bearings. By now it was 8.00pm and I could feel Sage getting a little stressed.

“It’s ok,” I said. “We’re not in a rush.”

“Well we’re not NOT in a rush either,” she replied.

Perhaps she had a point. Spending the night crouched shivering in the snow was not a welcoming prospect. And setting up camp in the dark – if we ever found some bare ground to sleep on – was possible but would be tricky.

Needless to say half an hour later we were all set up in a perfect spot with a panoramic view of the high country.

So what was the point of all this? Why lug half of my worldly possessions to the top of a mountain just to bring them down again the next day?

Well, for one, it was gorgeously beautiful up there - and remote. It was July 1st, Canada Day, when half the country heads into the outdoors and we had the mountain to ourselves.

Secondly it’s good for your head (if not your knees and ankles.) There’s nothing quite like getting up with the sun on top of the world and staring out over two different mountain ranges to make you feel insignificant and happy, both healthy emotions in my book.

But the real reason we had come up the mountain was to track animals. And track them we did: two black bears that appeared to be a mating couple, a moose, a wolf (who produced an enormous turd) and, most exciting of all, a lynx (very rare).

Sage carefully sized and photographed each spore and made appreciative noises. (I am also a certified tracker – Level 3 no less - and I love finding and figuring out tracks. But I don't have the full octave of enthusiasm – or knowledge - that Sage does.)

On that note, Sage’s latest sub-enthusiasm – sub because it is still strictly speaking part of the broader tracking family tree -  is an even more esoteric art called trailing. Trailing is when you follow the subtle signs of an animal’s passing in the bush, with the ultimate aim of catching up with it.

It’s the sort of thing that Hollywood loves to depict, and, interestingly, something that probably all of our ancestors knew how to do pretty well.

Last week, after spotting a black bear and a cub by the edge of a clearing, Sage and I trailed them – again Sage in the lead – through a clearcut you would think it impossible to follow anything through. Our clues were tiny scuffs of earth and bent leaves.

I’m unsure why but I think we are the only bear-viewing lodge in western Canada whose guides are trained and certified in these ancient and rewarding arts.

And that has had me reflecting – as we prepare to open for business again after a two and a half year lapse.

Seeing bears is great, of course, and getting to watch them for a while even better. Photographing them is fine too. (Though there are many thousands of incredible photographs of bears already out there.)

But what we strive for is something a little more niche. Unusual sightings. Natural sightings. Perhaps even unique sightings. Many of the bears we see never even know that we are there. Some, in the remote areas we walk, have almost certainly never seen a human before.

What we try to offer our guests is a sort of bear immersion holiday. We view them, yes, but we also take in their habitat, their ecology, their biology and what makes them so special and unique.

At the dinner table we talk about what it’s like to be a bear guide and track and guide in these mountains.

Our holidays are not for everyone, of course. We work our guests a little harder than the sit-in-a-viewing-platform brigade. We walk deep into the forest and even up into the sub-alpine (though we use a 4x4 utility vehicle to break the back of the ascent, something Sage and I didn't do last week.)

And we don’t use any form of organized attractant  to bring bears into one place. We go out and look for them in their world.

After 15 years in the bush during which I have watched thousands of bears, and Sage’s precocious and voracious appetite for knowledge and new bush skills, we hope we offer something with a little more depth than most.

So, if you are tempted, we still have some spots open for this autumn. And we promise we won’t make you carry your house, food and wardrobe up a mountain. That’s our job.