Oh, Canada! Pt. 2 "Lake Kool-Aid!"
Well, after improving my water sliding capabilities in Calgary, we left the plains behind and headed towards Lake Louise.
Lake Louise is a gorgeous glacial lake nestled right into the Rockies, and is composed of sixty percent water, and forty percent blueberry Kool-Aid. Or at least, that is the only explanation that makes any sense to me, because it is blue, and I'm not just talking a little blue, I'm talking as blue as your face that time you were six and bet your sibling that you could hold your breath for ten minutes. Yes, that blue. There's some other rumor circulating that this iridescent blueness is caused by sediment eroded off of glaciers, yadda yadda yadda, but I'm sticking to Kool-Aid.
After sitting with the rest of the tourists on the edge of the lake, murmuring "it's soooo blue!" for about fifteen minutes, we decided to hike to some of the high points surrounding the lake.
My dad and I were the ones that brought backpacks along on the trip, so we pulled supply duty. We were all together for the first five minutes, but then Andrew took off ahead and I followed, lest he end up at ten thousand feet without a drink of water, vultures circling overhead. I wasn't sure what caused this sudden burst of Alpine ambition in him, but found out later that had a vision of a wise old mountain goat telling him that great wonders awaited us if we would continue to climb ever higher. So, off we went.
After a brief stop at a tea house, Andrew decided that we should take a walk around a mountain lake, which somehow escalated into us climbing steep switchbacks up to peak called the Big Beehive.
Perhaps is was the combination of the thin air and the fact that I was carrying the provisions, but about halfway up, I started having hallucinations. Every time Andrew turned around now, he seemed to be wearing knickers and a monocle, pointing a hiking staff at me and calling out "Come on Sherpa! Hurry up with the steamer trunk!", and then mumbling about what glory this ascent would bring to the empire.
However, after a drink of water my clarity was restored.
Upon reaching the top, it was a spectacular view, with China in sight on the western horizon. Okay, so we weren't quite high enough for that, but it really was fantastic view of Lake Louise down below.
In the ample time that hiking allows for contemplation, I have come to a profound realization about life; never ask a kind old Swiss gentleman how far it is to the top of the mountain, if you want an answer that is, in any way shape or form, applicable to us. Words to live by.
You see, when that gentleman was young, the Alps were his playpen; as an infant, he was probably not nursed by his mother, but was rather suckled by mountain goats. Although this old Swiss gentleman may have "hiked" when he was our age, he has, by now, transcended the need to touch his feet to the ground and "hike" like the rest of us, preferring instead to levitate himself slightly above the trail as he makes his way skyward, leaving all the Americans suffering from corollaries in his dust.
And don't think that you're safe if the kind old gentleman looks 120 years old, because the older he is, the more in touch with the Tao of Alpinisme he has become. So, just remember, next time you ask him how much time it is to the top, multiply the answer by four and proceed.
To be continued...
P.S. If you're wondering why I'm not talking about England and France yet, Don't worry, tales of the Eurotrip are coming soon.
Your friend,
Peter
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