Living on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, I’m surrounded by natural beauty. Sometimes, I forget how stunning this place is until I see a post or hear a visitor marvel over it. Moments like those remind me to be grateful for these mountains, and I’d like to tell you a story about the mountains I call home.
For the first fifteen years I lived here, I was only vaguely aware of the mountains. I remember my first impression as a young woman of 20 years old: isolation. I felt like I was in the middle of nowhere. I had moved from a city—not a huge one, but big enough to offer options like shopping, movies, and date nights. Coming here, it was hard to see the options: one grocery store, two banks (one always an ATB, as small towns seem to have), and not much else. That seems to be the case in every small rural town in the province. With a population of maybe 3,500 people, it was small, and all I saw was “limited.” Fast forward a few years. We got married, bought a house, had a couple of kids—everything society says to do. Between two jobs, kids, and hobbies, life was as busy as it needed to be. But that all changed one summer, thanks to my son.
A retired teacher had given a talk in his grade two class about hiking, and my son was hooked—he wanted to hike a mountain. I agreed, so that summer, I purchased a Passport to the Peaks book. Passport to the Peaks is a hiking program started by a local doctor over twenty years ago. The book contains maps and vague directions for hiking twenty-one peaks in the area, mostly in Willmore Wilderness Park, which you can see from town. It’s a fantastic idea, and the man who created it is a genius in my books. Years later, when I started volunteering for the program, I truly appreciated all the work he’d put into it. But that’s usually how things are; until you do the work yourself, you don’t really understand it.
That summer, I headed to the local tourist center to buy the book to please my son. I’m not going to lie—I wasn’t a hiker. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but I’d do anything for my kids, especially when they wanted to spend time with me. So, I read the book.
Looking back, I don’t think I read the book closely enough. Insert laugh. Though I had zero hiking experience, I thought, “How hard can it be?” But I was not prepared to take my kids up a mountain. Yet, I did—and our first trip was quite the adventure, let me tell you.
We set out with friends and kids in tow, armed with hats, sunscreen, bottled water, fruit snacks, and, naturally, tuna sandwiches. I tossed all our supplies into an old backpack, not quite grasping what I was getting into. My friend, who had kids the same age as mine, met up with us, and off we went. Looking back, it seemed simple: pack food, water, kids, make sure they have hats and runners, and go hike. What I learned that day changed my life and opened up a whole new world.
The front of the book has a waiver—a pretty generic one, talking about the wilderness. I remember reading it and not thinking much of it. Little did I know what adventures lie ahead! After skimming the book, we chose Ambler Mountain, the shortest and “easiest” in the book. Perfect.
At the time, I was in decent shape but nothing extraordinary. I think I thought I was young and could make it happen. You know how you do those things when you’re young, not realizing they might be complicated. I grabbed my backpack, threw in the tuna sandwiches, fruit snacks, water bottles, and met up with my friend and her kids. She had bear spray, and I had a large marine air horn to scare off bears. The kids thought it was awesome! Every kilometer or so, I’d let one of them blow it. Let me tell you, everyone knew we were hiking that day! But it kept them engaged and kept us safe.
It was a beautiful summer day with the sun shining and no sign of rain. I’d sunscreened the kids and kept an eye on them to make sure they were drinking water. As the day progressed, the temperature rose to over 30 degrees Celsius. Water was going fast, so I decided to hold off drinking to stretch the supply for the kids.
The hike up was lovely. Wildflowers lined the trail—purple and blue lupins, fireweed, asters, and goldenrod. It was so pretty. I remember thinking I should come back and dig some lupins out for my flowerbed, which I eventually did years later. They were so beautiful. We continued on, the little boys up ahead talking about bugs and who’d blow the airhorn next, while the girls lagged slightly behind, chatting among themselves.
Almost at the top, the kids were getting really hungry. We found a shady spot to eat, and I opened my backpack—only to discover that the water bottles had flattened the tuna sandwiches. Flattened tuna is… an experience—a sad, soggy mess! I tried the “mom voice”: “Oh, it’s not so bad.” But the kids’ faces said it all. We are what we could, made plans for a treat at Subway on the way home, and pressed on. Good thing this was the shortest and “easiest” mountain.
Ambler Mountain has a “false summit”—a point that looks like the top but isn’t. When my friend’s daughter reached it and realized she had to go down and up again, she had a full meltdown. Her mom told me to continue with the other kids. After a bit of coaxing, they rejoined us, and the boys, spotting the summit’s cairn box, dashed to the top, air horn blaring. Inside the cairn, we found the metal stamper to record the achievement. As I stamped our page, my friend turned to me and said, “We made it!” I opened my mouth to reply, and only garbled sounds came out. She looked at me, alarmed: “You have heat stroke. We need to get you off this mountain.” So we began our descent.
The hike down was quick, but the heat had hit me hard. The kids, of course, were ready to go home. We came to a little stream we’d passed on the way up, and my friend had me wet my hat and drink from it. It didn’t take long to feel better, and then we got out of there. Back at the vehicles, she gave me heck about drinking enough water, the kids were happy, and our next stop was at Subway.
That hike was the start of a new passion for me. That summer, to my son’s delight, we climbed four peaks in the Passport to the Peaks program, and it was the beginning of many more hours spent exploring the Willmore Wilderness. Though I no longer make tuna sandwiches for hikes, I bring along ready-to-eat tuna packs instead. Every time I step onto a trail, I’m reminded of that first, imperfect, and unforgettable adventure—one that brought me closer to these mountains I now call home.
