Part one of the two…
Nature’s Profound Pull: A Trip to Lake Louise
Nature has a profound way of coaxing us into presence. I experienced this power on a recent trip to Lake Louise. If you’re unfamiliar, Lake Louise is a magnificently turquoise colored, oblong body of water nestled into the mountain ranges of Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada. The idea for the visit came after my wife got back from a girl’s trip with a quick turnaround to head out again on a work trip. Being on solo parenting duty (I can’t ignore the assistance I received from the in-laws); I expressed the need for a vacation. My wife, the supportive woman that she is, recognized my needs and nudged me to book something for myself. We determined that given our life responsibilities of child, horse duties, and dog care, that multiple family trips per year to get away isn’t quite as feasible as we would like. The following day, I looked at Google Flights, and scanned for cheap flights to areas that wouldn’t consume an entire day of travel. My eyes settled on Calgary, Alberta. I remembered nearby Banff National Park. I booked a flight with an early morning departure time from Seattle-Tacoma International Airport on a Thursday with plans to return on Sunday evening.
After an early morning wake up the Friday after my arrival and a roughly two hour drive from my Airbnb in Calgary, I arrived in the parking lot of Lake Louise at 7 am on the dot. The day held no solid plans, as the only intent I had was to experience the beauty of Lake Louise from its shore, and take a brief hike up to the Lake Agnes Tea House, enjoy a cup of tea, then return to the car and find another area to explore. The world was at my fingertips. Having a day with no agenda filled me with so much joy and freedom. I felt whole, I felt free, but I also felt guilty, like I shouldn’t be there. Who was I deserving of such a trip while my wife was at home taking care of the responsibilities of life? Not to mention, she was home looking after our declining French Bulldog. Maple was nearing twelve and her health wasn’t the best. Her little legs would tremble viciously, more than usual as it’s always been a thing for her, as she stood to drink her water. Getting up the three steps into our mudroom was nearing impossible. We began lifting her up and down the stairs a month prior after her legs gave way one day on her descent. As her back legs slipped and her tiny body tumbled to its side, my heart broke. In that one moment, her frailty set in harder than a sinking stone, my chest ached and I knew the day would one day come soon. She was getting skinnier, eating less, sleeping more. Leslie and I were mentally preparing ourselves for the day where we had to make that very tough and horrible decision, the one every pet owner has to make but always avoids talking about. Maple’s declining health played another role in why Leslie and I decided that joint travel wasn’t currently an option, we did not want to leave our life-long partner in the care of another.
Standing among the shoreline of the lake, I was overwhelmed with awe. Its surface holding reflective images as the surrounding mountain ranges shone down. It felt more like a Bob Ross painting than anything else. A cool breeze fluttered across the rocky shoreline, giving way to soft gentle pokes at my sternum, every attempt to penetrate that protective shell to my heart. With each jab it spoke lightly in my ear: Just. Enjoy. This. There are sights in life where when you see them in photographs, then see them in person and it’s an underwhelming experience. As if the many magnificent photos, the ones that ultimately lead you to utter, I need to see this for real, were so heavily doctored that the image of it in a photograph is more compelling than the real-life flesh of it. Lake Louise is the opposite. No picture on this planet will do it justice, nor will words–but it doesn’t stop me from trying. Therefore, it’s a simple recommendation to experience the thing yourself, for real. You won’t be sorry.
The hike up to the Lake Agnes Tea House was a trek of slow incline, few switchbacks and plenty of mosquitos. Large black blood sucking bugs landing upon my flesh, second after second, in search of the substance that keeps them alive. A mosquito’s nature to survive results in their thriving, it results in my discomfort for days to come. I walked and swatted, walked and swatted, walked and swatted. First with my hands, then with my hat.
I came across a small, still lake with a surface like freshly polished glass–later found out to be rightfully named, Mirror Lake–surrounded by a wall of spruce trees reflecting into the lake projecting back a mystical place that can only be found in other realms. A small creek slowly deposited fresh water into the lake. The water moved its way through the boulders which laid a path to a more solitary home. Birds sang in the nearby trees, their choruses ricocheted off the still water; a natural orchestra sending peace and tranquility through every fiber of my being. If it weren’t for the mosquitos, I may have been able to sit still long enough to enjoy it more fully. Across the large pond stretched an enormous rock wall with horizontal ripples, marbled layers of reddish, white and brown deposits fluttered upward like the layers of a decorated cake. Its top narrowed slightly from its side contours and rounded out, giving the illusion of a beehive carved out of the earth. This too had a name according to its distinguishing characteristics: Big Beehive.
I drifted into the nearby wall of spruce trees that encased the small lake, like a burglar in the night, shielding myself the best I could from other hikers in the area, and slipped off my pants and put on the shorts that I had thankfully tucked into my backpack. My gift of extra real estate so the mosquitos could continue to lay their claim. A price I was willing to pay in order to house cool thighs, cool calves and cool ankles. I carried on.
The Charming Lake Agnes Tea House
The Lake Agnes Tea House, a rustic cabin built upon a stone foundation gives the impression of European architectural influence. It’s positioned upon the bedrock that surrounds the outstretched lake, sitting strong and stable 1,312 feet above Lake Louise. Built in 1901 by the Canadian Pacific Railway, it is named after Lady Agnes MacDonald, the wife of the first Canadian Prime Minister. The views are stunning. It’s the perfect place for refuge after the brief 2.2-mile hike from the main trail head below.
Its exterior holds a partially covered wrap-around deck with old wooden tables and chairs. I ordered a cup of tea (I do not recall the flavor), pulled out my notebook and took a few notes about the day, but this ended quickly. The ridiculousness of such an act sprang forward like a hard slap in the face, as if to say, you’re surrounded by beauty. Live in it. I listened. Put my notebook back into my backpack and simply watched. The place was busy. I imagined the stories of those around me, individuals from all walks of life and possibly from all over the world, here in this serene mountain top establishment, run mostly by university students who take the effort to hike out the day’s trash at the start and end of each shift.
In the luxury of a hot cup of tea, I watched the wait staff bring out baskets of warm, delicious, flaky slices of bread nestled against little cups filled with creamy butter. I’m struck by the realization that all of these ingredients that go into these meals have to get the 2.2-miles up to the rustic old cabin somehow. And since bags of flour can’t sprout wings, it turns out one of the staff members hikes up fresh supplies every day after their shift. According to the laminated FAQ sheets posted on the makeshift rolodex display of each table,
“Usually the person carries up: 12 cucumbers, 2.5 kgs/5 lbs of cheese, their clean laundry and a staff dinner. There are two helicopter days a year for all the flour, sugar, propane and dry goods that are too heavy to hike. This usually takes an entire day as it takes 40 trips to fly in all of (the) supplies up. The helicopter uses a long line with a large net attached to drop supplies just off the tea house porch.”
A lot of work for the many people who make the trek up the hillside so that they can take in the stellar views while enjoying the amenities of comfortable living. A stark reminder that there is always a lot harder work behind whatever the thing is that you get to enjoy with a few bucks and a little individual effort on your part. Tip your server’s people. Tip them well.
In my periphery, a bird swooped down, stealing a large piece of bread from the neighboring table. A chorus of laughter shook the patio as a handful of us watched the bird ascend into the sky with its prize–a well earned treat in my opinion. Moments later, as if the bird sent out a message of her successes to the adjacent wildlife, a chipmunk scaled the same table to steal another piece of bread from the depleting basket. The chipmunks’ presence, unlike the birds, was stealth-like and scared the woman at the table. She screamed and leapt back from the bench. With a hand over her heart, she looked around to see if anyone else noticed. Everyone else noticed, and we all laughed again.
Looking out over the still lake in front of me, the shallow waters near the shore showed a scattering of large, fragmented rocks speckled like something prehistoric. At the far end of Lake Agnes there is a red hillside of crumbled rock. It fed upward into the more solid mountain range with vertical rock walls that jutted upward and onward for what seemed like forever, there was absolutely no way I was to turn back now. I was deeply compelled to move forward. How could I not? How could I ignore the demands of Mother Nature? I’d be a fool to raise a hand and say, “No thank you, I have all I need.”
On the far side of Lake Agnes, at the base of the upward slope is a steep incline of switchbacks and narrow pathways which leads up to the plateau of the previously mentioned Big Beehive, my next stopping point. In my approach, as if carved out by nature strictly as an invitation to sit and bestow upon the wonders of the world, was a giant slab of rock just above the waters of Lake Agnes. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to sit in silence, close my eyes and marvel in the presence of natural life. So, this is what I did. Seconds turned to minutes; minutes turned to something else. I don’t know how long I was on that rock, but when I opened my eyes, I got the odd sense that a fair amount of time had elapsed, but nothing was available to serve as proof. The birds who sang their songs before I closed my eyes still sang their songs upon them opening. The water of the lake never ceased to splash gently among the shore, and something tells me it never will, another beautiful aspect of life.
As I progress through life, moving from one point to the next, looking for success, achievement, accolades, meeting deadlines, and measuring milestones, these waters that surround me in my presence will not cease for a moment, nor will they ever surrender their beauty or power. It is up to me to accept these little invitations from nature. One’s which are never noticeably offered but will never quite go away. Nature does not seek for our approval, rather it is us who must search and accept its offering of peace, its offering of salvation, its offering of union and connection into the universal whole of it all. Life.
I gathered my things and turned around to carry on. This is when I met Teagan, male, mid-twenties. Teagan was moving cross country from the province of Quebec to Vancouver, British Columbia, in search of new beginnings. After being laid off from his previous employer, a tech startup company, he worked with a career coach and two weeks later he was packing up his belongings and driving across Canada on a new adventure. His goal is to relaunch a prior venture of selling travel vehicles. I commend him for having the courage to make such a bold move. While in my tranquility, he snapped a photo of me meditating on my comfy little rock.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said when I faced him. “The picture was too good to pass up. I’m always looking for content.” He airdropped me the photo, we chatted some and said our goodbyes. Our paths later crossed again as we separately headed to the top of Big Beehive.
Embracing Nature’s Whispers
Among the edge of a cliff, 7,450 feet above Lake Louise, gusts of wind sent sparks of caution through my body. Gentle reminders to respect nature. Do not venture too close to the edge, she said. Looking down at the beautiful turquoise lake, the 180-degree view of faraway mountain ranges and vast evergreen forests, a sense of awe took over my chest, nearly suffocating the air from my lungs. I thought: How much beauty does this life hold? And how lucky am I to be here now? Words will not do justice for what Mother Nature has created. Everything is so vast, yet everything is so intertwined and connected.
The 19th-century Chief Seattle, leader of the Suquamish and Duwamish Native American tribes of the Pacific Northwest said, “All things are bound together. All things connect.” There are moments on a dark, clear, winter night when I am able to look up into the nighttime sky and into the world above. The scenery littered with speckles of light painted among a backdrop so dark and vast it’s hard to fathom its true depth. Each time, I am in awe of the worlds that exist beyond our reach and possibly beyond our recognition. Yet I always get that strong feeling in my gut of the interconnectedness of everything. In staring out over the vast landscape stretched out before me, the colorful body of water below to serve as an item on Mother Nature’s plate, making it a challenge to distinguish what is the main course and what is simply a side, I am filled with the same spark of astonishment that washes through me when I look up into the vast space above our heads and into the galaxies that are far, far away.
You never really have to travel that far for inspiring moments, yet somehow, it’s easy to ignore the wonders of nature that surround us at all times. I recognize that, while sitting on a rock at the edge of a cliff, I am witnessing beauty that is far outside the norm of our own backyards or local nature sanctuaries. I’d be a fool to not sit in this moment. So, I do. I sit and stare and stare some more. I let my heart bask in the privilege of being a human being capable of making the ascent to this place. How many people will not get to see something this beautiful in their lifetime? Whether it’s because of a lack of able body or not growing up in environments that allow them the funds to travel. Or because they live in a part of the world in which staying alive is their only true focus. In that moment, I’m grateful to be alive. I’m grateful my legs work. I’m grateful I can afford something like this. I’m grateful I have a supportive wife who is willing to let me go see the world. In that moment though, I wished she were able to witness what I was witnessing. Part of existing in this life is being able to live shared experiences with the ones you love. So, I wished she were there.
A group of women joined Teagan and I as we stood staring out in amazement. They bantered back and forth coordinating photographs, expressing caution in stepping toward the edge of the plateau. I asked if they wanted me to take a group photo. They said, yes, so I did. Then, the five of us sat, scattered around the various boulders that littered the bluff, sharing our awe, our experience to get here, and other generalities: Where are you from? How long are you here? Where are you staying?
Kaycey, Mattea, and Dani, childhood friends from a small town I cannot remember the name of in Wisconsin, were on a girl’s trip. They ventured by car from Wisconsin to Canmore, Alberta. Dani, an Airforce nurse residing in Florida with her husband of roughly seven years. Kaycey, also a nurse, on the civilian side. Mattea, celebrating her recent graduation from pharmacy school. The three of them interacted exactly like you would expect childhood friends to interact; closely, openly and candidly. They made friendly jabs or jokes that would send most into emotional fits. This is the unique power of long-time friendship, one can say whatever one wants to about the other, and usually laughter follows. It is because there is a long-time, shared love. While I was taking their photos, one expressed to the other to be careful nearing the edge of the cliff in fear that she might trip and tumble, emphasizing the others’ propensity for clumsiness. The comment was taken seriously but not personal. I’m reminded of the many things my close group of friends can say to each other, about each other. This is the power of closeness, the power of knowing the people in your life so well and for so long, that it’s hard to argue the little character commentaries.
Hiking Adventures and Reflections
I’m not exactly sure when or how it was agreed that we would further explore the park, but from the cliffs edge of Big Beehive, together, we ascended the boulders which scattered the plateau and made our way back to the trails which would lead us deeper into Banff National Park. The girls traveled in a familial cluster a few yards ahead while Teagan and I hung back chatting. On arriving at a fork in the trail, the girls were met by another Canadian man named Tom, presumably in his twenties as well. He agreed–without much diplomacy–to lead the way. There were now six members in our little band of explorers. We advanced forward, a merry group, sharing details of our lives back home, laughing about the idiosyncrasies of existence, the beauties of nature, the potential meanings of life. You know, the normal things you talk about with strangers. Our destination? The Plain of Six Glaciers Teahouse. The sister establishment to that of the Lake Agnes Teahouse. The Plain of Six Glaciers Teahouse, a two story, rustic cabin, operating in similar fashion, located 3.47 miles from the Chateau Lake Louise. “The teahouse was built in 1927 and has been privately owned and operated by the same family since 1959.”
We arrived, not quite exhausted but ready for a retreat, in recognition that separately planned–but collectively navigated–we had walked an estimated 7.8 miles in total. I walked the manmade cobblestone pathway, which snaked around the teahouse’s vicinity, a serene and beautifully natural landscape. Birds chirped as the breeze gently blew over the snowcapped mountains ahead, rolled down the hillside, across the calm creek that cut through the vegetation, greeted my face and provided me a soft and gentle kiss on my heart.
The six of us sat around the table. We held more conversation, centered on vocation, life plans, and past histories. At one point, we burst into laughter over a comment Teagan had made on the trail, referring to Lake Louise’s turquoise color, enunciating it ter-kwas. The laughter held no ill intent, Teagan took it lightly. His argument of “pronouncing it like a Canadian” was stunted as Tom denounced Teagan’s claim. We laughed more. Somehow hair color sprang into the conversation. I referenced Dani’s hair as being “dishwater blonde.” Again, more laughter from the group. “That’s very specific!” she said. I responded, “I was a hairstylist for ten years, so I refer to color in all sorts of ways.” I’m always amazed by the reaction that the news of my past vocation creates with people. To me it’s normal, but I recognize that to others, it’s not a normal career choice for the average male. We ate, drank water, conversed, exchanged email addresses, and eventually decided to call it. After saddling up the tab, we asked for the server to snap a photo of the group.
Nobody had planned to move further up the trail. Yet, there we were, propelling ourselves up the mountain side to what would be our final destination. The group trudged along, slower now, navigating the long berm of brown rock that cuts uphill toward the distant Mount Victoria, Victoria Glacier and Mount Lefroy. At one point, Teagan–or maybe it was Tom–gave the most spot on cultural reference to this portion of our journey based solely on the scenery. As if reading my mind, “It’s like we are in Lord of the Rings,” one of them called out from behind. Over my shoulder, I responded, “On the path to Mount Mordor.” We arrived at the end of our trail; we could advance no further. At the edge of the berm and to the right, a steep hillside of scree–or loose rock–led to two enormous boulders. Fantastic lookout points. We scrambled up the hillside, careful of our footing as the loose rock shuffled and slipped away underfoot. Kaycey decided to stay behind at the bottom–I don’t blame her. I, however, am too extreme to pass up the opportunity for a better view. So, there I was. There we were, on the edge of another giant boulder, peering out over a landscape which seemed fake, another one of Mother Nature’s intricately orchestrated creations.
There existed a sense of accomplishment. A sense that I had found exactly what I had come to find that day. What I found was not at all what I was searching for, and what I was searching for was simply unidentified. I suppose this is the power of removing expectations, something I am learning to do more and more as the years move forward. Parenthood is teaching me this, marriage is teaching me this, life in general is teaching me this. The way down was a breeze, the descent propelled us with ease. My thighs felt the burn from the day’s movement. Near the parking lot and the shuttle drop off, at the edge of Lake Louise, throngs of people scattered the shore, taking photo after photo. Between my 7 am arrival and now–which was roughly eight hours later–the crowds had easily quadrupled.
Profound Realizations and Farewell
The group stopped along a cluster of boulders at the edge of the lake across from the Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise for a group photo, a remembrance of the hard work we completed. Hard work that didn’t seem so hard at the time. My legs, however, when getting up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night that evening would argue otherwise–in total, I covered over 13 miles that day. Like a band of old friends, we hugged, exchanged gratitude’s and farewell wishes, we acknowledged the pleasantries of each other’s company, and said goodbye.
Final Thoughts
Allow me to end with and broach the subject of The Divine. My spiritual practice has nourished me over the years. In a time not long ago, I considered myself a staunch atheist. However, (in part due to personal experiences throughout my life) my perspective has morphed vastly on the subject. I’ve become more open, more accepting. In recognition that so much cannot (and may never be able to) be explained, it goes without evidence that I firmly believe there is something deeper at play than just the normal intervention of human beings. Let me just say this: There has been a lot of mysticism involved, a lot of idiosyncrasies in my life that have pulled in my awareness and harnessed my attention. So strongly in fact, that I can no longer deny the significance or withhold on the belief that there is something deeper at play, something magnificent, something that is more powerful than anything a human being can neither create nor comprehend. I am no longer willing to chalk such instances up to pure coincidence. We live in an age of science, which I greatly respect, but I believe that the age of science has leant to an age of ignorance of the spiritual realms. I do, however, see a pendulum swing occurring right now toward more acceptance in the spiritual. I have no evidence (none of us really do) to support the claims that are made on spiritual or universal connectedness. But we cannot deny feelings, and boy oh boy have I experienced some very profound feelings with something other worldly in recent years. As the 13th-century poet Rumi once said, “The divine unity is the infinite mystery.” And a mystery it is.
Not only do I believe in The Divine, but I also believe deeply in a God. My acceptance in adopting this culturally loaded three-letter word into my vocabulary was like getting my three-year-old son to take a bath and go to bed. I wanted none of it. One day though, it just changed. I was willing to accept. Prior to my acceptance, I was simply tying the concepts of God to other people’s belief systems. Organized religion had tainted my willingness to accept (and to be honest, I still have my thoughts on it and strong diversion to it, possibly another topic for another time). The indoctrination of the masses through organized religion hung bitterly on my heart and I mustered everything I could to say “fuck you” whenever God tried to step onto my playing field.
There still exists fights over whose God is superior. There also stands a stronger and more general consensus that there is One God. In my humble opinion, all this debate over various religions should cease in the simple recognition that everyone who chooses to worship, is essentially worshiping the same God through different methods, rituals, and modalities. Deep down, my thoughts are this: There is One Universal God. One Universal Divine. Call it what you will. I recognize that many religions proclaim the same thing, and this is always my hangup. There exists the futile argument that one religion’s “One God” is the true god, while another proclaims the same of theirs, each fundamentally similar but each different in their own right. There exists the ego of organized religion. There exists the danger to turn something good into something immoral and rotten to its core.
However, a deeper sense in me views it in a more individualistic approach (if I could apply my Western upbringing to the subject). I don’t necessarily believe though that the individualism is of The Divine itself. Rather, it’s the relationship with The Divine. My relationship with God is not your relationship with God, and your relationship with God is not my relationship with God. Seems contradictory to an extent. But here is the reframe, it’s possible there is One God, she just knows how to interact with each of us differently. She speaks to us uniquely, individually, directly. I hear the atheists now, “You can’t prove it! Therefore, it doesn’t exist.” My response to this: “Who gives a shit?”
The point I am trying to make is that God is kind, she is loving, and she is always looking out for me, for us. This does not mean that life is to be nothing but pretty rainbows and hummingbird and butterflies. Often, it’s the opposite. In order to keep all relationships flourishing, you must do your part. You must be willing. Willing to accept, willing to give back and willing to hold an awareness. While I was experiencing the amazing scenery of my day hike around one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen in my life, she was working to interject a million different moments into my day in order to distill in me something strong, something powerful, something humble. She ensured I crossed the paths of those whom I ended up spending the day hiking with, conversing with, and laughing with. She was doing all of this in order to build me up, to keep me connected, so that I could be well equipped, on a spiritual level, to deal with one of the hardest, most challenging days of my life, which I would experience the very following day.
Comments by Aaron Klein