A winter weekend in the mountains

It’s been a long time since I felt I had leisure to give myself over to musings, and much has happened in the intervening months. Travels to Peru and Bolivia (more about those in ‘Every Day Is a Journey’, the travel blog), the happy, busy time around Christmas and New Year’s with family and friends, another unplanned trip to Germany to see family there – it seems I am, at least in the winter, more away from than on the farm nowadays, and musing needs space to be still and at rest. Yet I know that this can be accomplished even in times of extreme business, simply by paying attention, by being fully present in what I do. Last weekend was a perfect example for that. 

It was the Family Day long weekend, and as for the past eight years or so we gathered at the Ribbon Creek hostel in the Kananaskis area west of Calgary to fill up on mountain air, fluffy snow, great potluck food, games, music and happy times with old and new friends. 

This time we left early enough that we drove a fair part of the four and a half hour trip in the daylight and were far enough south to make out the distant purple line of the mountains behind a thin layer of cloud hugging the western horizon when the sun had set. The sky above was clear, and from my place on the left back seat I watched Orion’s slow rise to an upright position in the east. Once again the moon was full, just like three years ago on our way to the very rustic Mosquito Creek hostel. By the time we had turned off the busy Highway 1 south onto Highway 40 the trees along the side of the road cast sharp shadows on the snow in the silvery moonlight.  

We arrived shortly before eight, and most of the parking spots had been taken already: our family has the longest drive. A wonderful scent - a mixture of spruce trees, mild mountain air and wood smoke from the fireplace in the lounge - greeted us as soon as we opened the car doors, and a happy din of voices enveloped us when we entered the hostel. For a moment I remembered our first arrival, years ago, when we didn’t know anybody yet and were greeted in much the same way: sounds and smells and voices inviting us into the comfort of a welcoming group.

The next two days we drove out to Peter Lougheed Park, about forty minutes away, to take advantage of the extensive trail system there. By now we have tried out most of them at one time or other, and it is hard to pick favourites: they all have their particular beauty, and it depends very much not only on the weather or the trail conditions, but also on my mood which one I prefer. 

I love the long, gradual descent ‘Pocaterra’ has to offer after a steady, at times strenuous climb through the forest up ‘Whiskey Jack’, for example; here, the ‘long, smooth glide’ happens almost effortlessly on a day with such perfect conditions as Saturday. No tight turns or very steep passages require skill and heightened caution, and the eye can roam freely, feasting on the snow covered peaks in the distance, the play of light and shadow in a clearing, the fantastic snow sculptures topping broken-off trunks and pale boulders, cracks and crevices in the mottled pale grey of their flanks home to a new generation of little spruce trees. The wind sang in the tree tops, but rarely could we feel it on our trail so far below. From time to time it puffed veils of snow across the path, taking my breath away for a moment. Soon everything was still again. 

Once I turned around, alerted by an exclamation from my friend who was skiing behind me. ‘There’s an animal up in that tree’, she said, ‘bigger than a squirrel, with a long, bushy tail and a pointy face’. She had only noticed it because it had run across the trail in front of her and quickly climbed the tree. I searched the area she pointed out, and sure enough, there it was: medium brown, with a beautiful tail about the third of its total length and a lighter coloured face reminding me of a house cat, with pointed, not overly big ears. It didn’t seem to be too concerned with our presence, watching us intently from its perch on a branch about three metres up. After a little while it jumped over to an adjacent tree, climbed down a bit, and continued on in this manner. I had never seen an animal like this before, but we assumed it was some kind of marten. When we checked at the hostel in the evening we found out that this was indeed an American Pine Marten (Martes Americanus), a native of the mixed forests of Alaska, Canada and the northern United States. It is an agile climber and hunts for prey like squirrels, hares, mice, shrews, chipmunks, but also birds, eggs and reptiles as well as nuts and fruits. What a great coincidence that we were in the right spot at the right time! 

We saw other animals on the way from Ribbon Creek to Peter Lougheed Park: a moose grazing in a swamp, a group of four male mountain sheep eagerly licking salt on the road, unwilling to budge even with cars slowly driving by and stopping, several whiskey jacks and, more heard than seen, groups of mountain chickadees.

Whiskey jack hoping for a treat

What we didn’t (and would have loved to!) see were the four wolves someone spotted not far from the hostel the second night. 

This was way more wildlife than we encountered in earlier years. We have often remarked on the lack of animal tracks when we went skiing. But why, after all, would they choose to show themselves when they have the whole forest to roam?

After the clean-up on Monday morning we had all checked out by ten. One more destination awaited us, a walk that has, by now, become tradition for our ever growing family group. We drove over to the trailhead on the other side of the highway and followed the path, first with some slight inclines and declines through the pine forest, after a while winding through an open aspen forest. Finally, after a left turn, the path ran alongside a small creek. We soon had reached our destination, the frozen wall of water known as Troll Falls.

It is a popular destination, but fortunately we were still early enough to avoid the bulk of the people heading here on foot, skis and snow shoes. This year the babies – 13-month old Pippa and eleven-month-old Henry – still slept through most of the experience snug in their backpacks, but next year they, too, will likely want to climb up to the foot of the waterfall, and a year or two later they might beg to join the braver members of the crew and slide down towards the creek from behind the falls. 

As for the rest of us, we are content to admire Mother Nature’s beautiful sculpting and listen to the quiet gurgle of water hidden behind the bulging ice, like the soft twitter of the chickadees a promise that spring, though not yet within grasp, is certain to come again.