It is interesting how a thought can grow to become an idea, then a desire, a quest and finally a mission. In 1999, I didn’t even know about Jasper until I was 100 miles from it. In 2002, Jasper was a place me and my wife were hell-bent on getting to.
In the ’99 trip, we had arrived in Calgary, and spent our time hanging around the town of Lake Louise and surrounding areas. That’s when we started hearing about Jasper. We gave a ride to a teenage couple with backpacks, who were thumbing their way to Jasper. Jasper seemed to prompt everyone who had already visited to say, 'Oh you absolutely must go there!' In a part of Alberta that is chockfull of 'must sees' , Jasper sat a tantalizingly near-yet-far 100 miles farther to the north. We just hadn’t had the time then. Apparently only the truly diligent get to glimpse Jasper.
Long after that 1999 trip, there was something about the stark beauty of the Canadian Rockies that never stopped beckoning me. So in June of 2002, we decided to visit the Banff region with the main intent of getting to Jasper. Also, for people residing in the U.S., going to Canada is one way to experience another country without many of the associated hassles.
Wiser this time, we resisted the charms of Lake Louise by skirting around the whole area and heading north right away after driving into Banff National Park. The road that goes up to Jasper is called the Icefield Parkway. It is desolate in parts and very accessible to those who have the time – like most of Canada itself. The Canadian Rockies run south to north, and the Parkway runs right alongside the mountains. An ice-cold gurgling river separates the mountains and the road. The entire panorama is made for soul-cleansing, a perfect antidote after a long bout of Urbanitis.
Our guidebook told us that wild mountain goats often came by the road. Wildlife viewing is always a treat and so we kept a constant lookout. A few miles north of Lake Louise, in the middle of absolutely nowhere we came across a Tibetan retreat. That same guidebook said that the place had accommodations for travelers. The campus with a single white building by a glacial lake did look awfully tempting, but the day had barely started. We simply couldn’t fit the retreat into our plans. We weren’t about to let Jasper elude us a second time. To travel is to make unending compromises. We pressed on.
Halfway between the towns of Lake Louise and Jasper there is a big attraction – the Columbia Ice Field. An ice field is basically a place that has buried its head in the snow, refusing to acknowledge the fact that the last ice age has long since melted away. In an ice-field, there is year around snow, and the chunks of ice are pure and thousands of years old. The Canadian authorities have commercialized it well, and for a fee, you can ride in “snowcoaches” – buses with humongous tires – directly on to the ice itself.
Twenty five miles before Jasper, we reached Athabasca Falls State Park. We still had time, and the guidebook said that there was a good chance of spotting mountain goats and so we took the turn and decided to check it out. We didn’t find any goats. What we did find were flowers. Lots of corsages, laid out all along the small cement wall adjacent the roaring waterfalls. Five days before our visit, a 21-year old man had fallen over that same wall into the waterfalls and perished. His body had not yet been found, and the Park Service was asking visitors to keep a lookout for it. There were many photos posted of the smiling young man. He had been the coach for a high-school girl’s hockey team, and all those teary teenage girls had left affectionate messages for him. Plucked away from life because of one lousy antic right by the falls. I spent a long time reading as many of those heartfelt messages as I could.
Late that afternoon we got to Jasper, our destination. We found accommodation, dumped our luggage and practically rushed out into the streets to make the most of the remaining day. We had forgotten that in the far north the light stays around till very late. There is always an inevitable deflation that accompanies the attainment of any goal, but Jasper was really good. It was easy to see why it was so popular among visitors. The majestic Rockies circle the town of Jasper in all directions. The entire town can be easily covered by foot.
A tiny railway station right in the center holds the town together, with occasional trains chugging off through the Banff National Forest. Right opposite the station is the town hall with an expansive grassy lawn. A few young men and women had already laid out sleeping bags there. They were saving a night’s lodging costs. To our delight, even in such a small town, there were around 3-4 health food and vegetarian restaurants. All we ever hope for is one. The main street had fancy stores targeted at the affluent tourists. We walked into a few boutiques just so that we could laugh at the atrocious prices before walking out. Window-shopping has a different meaning for us. All in all a captivating little town.
Early the following morning, we left town hoping to take in as much of the park and surrounding areas as we could before making our way back south. Jasper is inside the Jasper National Park, and so by definition there’s plenty to see. Rupal was very interested in going for at least one hike that was mentioned in the guidebook. I agreed, mainly to get it over with.
When we go on hikes, Rupal wants to try and do the longest circuit, whereas I don’t want to stray too far from the parking lot. That particular one was a hike down a gorge and back up for a total of six miles. Rupal wanted to do the entire circuit, but I talked some sense into her and agreed to do half a mile each way.
The morning was crisp, with the sunrays struggling to reach the depths of the gorge. Even in June, there were still some patches of snow off the trail, and the sun glinted off of the edges of ice. It was one of those sunny days that Nature uses to tempt vulnerable people into foolishly vowing that they will hike every day for the rest of their lives.
We started off briskly. Going downhill is the easy part. I saw other people panting badly on their way up, sipping frequently from their water bottles. Many were badly out of shape, and the hike was sheer torture for them. Why they weren’t home plonked in front of the TV, or in a restaurant enjoying a stack of pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast, I will never know.
Rupal was clearly enjoying the whole experience, so I walked beyond the half-mile point I had agreed to. Most of the other hikers seemed to be turning back at one particular spot where the trail suddenly dipped and headed down into the gorge. We decided to do likewise. And that’s when we spotted the two people. They were coming up from below. My curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to wait and ask them if there was anything very interesting below.
They were an elderly couple, and it turned out that they had actually walked all the way to the bottom of the gorge and were on their way back! First, they tried convincing us that we ought to go the whole hog. I managed to weasel out of that by mentioning our shortage of time to them.
The man was short, shorter than his wife, a shortness that results from his height diminishing with age. He was wearing a navy blue baseball cap that read: “Been There, Done That, Can’t Remember.” The man saw me looking at his cap and that was enough to get him start chatting with us. As we began our return climb up the gorge, Rupal and I walked with this man. His wife walked behind us, quietly.
I asked him how long his trip was.
'Oh, we hope to get back home sometime around mid-July,' he said. I was immediately consumed with envy at all the time available at his disposal. Rupal and I were running off to catch a plane from Calgary the next morning.
I asked him where else they had been, and the man described in detail their recent trip to Europe. Rupal and I haven’t yet worked up the courage to actually drive in Europe, relying instead on the abundant public transportation. But this man had flown to Frankfurt and rented an 18-foot RV. In that vehicle, he and his wife had gone to Salzburg, Vienna, ventured on to Hungary, cut back and gone into Italy , Venice, Florence and Rome before returning. He spoke about each place with the confidence that comes from taking the time to get to know it.
His wife was walking behind us, and I decided to wait for her while Rupal walked ahead with the man. The man’s wife was thin, wearing a white shirt over a pair of jeans, with sneakers that were made for hiking. Her once-blond hair was white and well-coifed.
I told her that I was very impressed hearing about their world travels from her husband.
"Did my husband tell you that he is 82?" she asked. I was stunned.
"And I’m 81," she said, reading the unasked question in my eyes.
"You don’t look a day over sixty!" I said, making what was for me an uncharacteristic remark.
"Thank you." She smiled easily, probably a veteran from having fielded such compliments for a long time.
We were walking briskly now. I had over four decades on her and she was the one who seemed less tired. The lady was in incomparably better health than my grandmothers, both of whom are about her age.
“How do the two of you manage to be in such great shape?” I asked her.
Without hesitating, she shared with me her recipe for her fitness.
“Years ago we started walking and exercising, and we just never stopped.” She made it sound real easy. Then she added something that could well be a formula for success in any endeavor.
“We keep fit by doing a little every single day.”
Ram Prasad
April 2003