12/03/2021
A few September’s ago on a whim and a last minute flight I popped down to Washington state for a week of backpacking with my friend . We had a list of mountains and lakes and backcountry camping trips long enough to last any sane person a season… and we did it all in seven days. This lake was the last on the list we were tired and sun burnt and running on fumes. I don’t know if I was saving the best for last as a motivation to actually complete the list… or since it is known for being incredibly busy with both human and bug populations alike. However when we crested over the final pass and the alpine lake came into view we didn’t hear hoards of people who had (for reasons that always escape me) hauled a few 6 packs of beer and a floating donut on the 21mile (34km) roundtrip backpacking expedition, we didn’t hear the buzzing of flies and mosquitos… it was silent. A little wind rustling in the trees and a gentle waterfall flowing at the backend of the lake - the very last of the glacial melt for the season. It was almost October and unseasonably warm and the kids had gone back to school and it was mid-week and… and… and… we were lucky. And then it hit me, a slight pang of guilt. That all of my friends, when referring to this, trip talked about the bugs and the heat and the crowds of people. Those pangs of guilt hit me now, running through empty streets of a tourist Mecca with a smile plastered across my face. That my home (and yes, Calgary is my home) is buried daily under blankets of snow as I wear shorts in the line to get into Trader Joe’s. I feel guilt for my luck maybe more often than I care to admit.
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![Boys Camping in 1965. And what's up with the young man on the far right? From a Kodachrome slide [2048x1375]](https://img3.glotels.com/756/025/112527917560252.jpg)
