As we left the parking lot of the school, we still had not decided upon our destination. We both knew that this was the first hike of the season and that our leg muscles needed work, but we also didn't want a "walk in the park." Ruth and I had spent days e-mailing back and forth possible hikes, but it was harder than we imagined to find one that was exciting yet doable. All we knew was that we didn't want to fight the traffic to West Vancouver, and Squamish was too far, so we headed eastward towards Chilliwack.
As Abbotsford faded away into the rear-view mirror, we knew we had to make a decision. The hike on the top of our list, but also one that we felt might be too much of a stretch with its 800 metre elevation gain, was Elk Mountain. Finally deciding that we "could always turn back part way up," we followed the highway to Prest Road and headed southward. As we drove along the devious road that wound its way up the mountainside south of Chilliwack, we were captivated by the number of homes hidden in the woods. Driving along the Trans-Canada, one would never guess that the forested glades above the valley floor harbour so many charming properties.
We finally pulled into the parking area at the trail head. A red pick-up wheeled in moments later, and a fit and energetic gentleman jumped out with his backpack and what looked like a tarp. It turned out that he and the driver of the truck had hiked up earlier in the morning, then glided down into the valley on their hang-gliders. We asked him how long it was to the top, and his response stuck with us all day--and is likely to be a mantra for us on future hikes. "Why does it matter how long it will take? Just keep going until you reach the top--it's the journey that counts."
It didn't take us long to meet the first steep inclines, but we trudged along happily and our legs came through for us. It was a well-marked trail that had obviously seen many a hiking boot. We eventually came to an old logging road that cut across the trail. With energy waning a little, we stopped for a drink and handful of trail mix. We could see a peak looming to our right and we wondered if that was our ultimate destination--it seemed awfully high.
At the 3.5 km. mark, we came to the rock outcropping that we had seen in pictures. From this spot, we looked over the valley--the Fraser River winding along, a patchwork of little farms, Chilliwack, the Trans-Canada snaking through the middle. Behind the valley, rose the peaks that surround Harrison Lake, and those of what was probably eastern Garibaldi Park. It was an awe-inspiring view, but unfortunately it was partially obscured by the haze of smoke from forest fires in Siberia.
Here we met a couple of other hikers who assured us that it was worthwhile continuing up to the summit. The next 500 metres to the summit was even steeper than what we had already climbed, and to add to the challenge, the narrow trail along the ridge was covered with loose scree.
As we neared the top, the woods opened up into alpine meadows, and what glorious meadows they were--lupines, lilies, columbines, spreading phlox, yarrow, mountain ash--all in full bloom. There is little more wondrous than alpine meadows at the height of blossom. It was like a scene from
Heidi, except as Ruth pointed out, if this had been Switzerland, there would have been little villages dotting the mountainside and likely a tram somewhere to take us down.
We knew we were almost at the top when we saw a brightly-coloured wind sock and tell-tale signs of foot traffic to the right of the trail. Here was obviously the spot where those who drifted down to the valley on hang-gliders threw themselves off the mountain. And to think that they first had to hike up carrying all their gear. Of course, the trail head was halfway up from the valley floor, so they would have soared much farther downwards than what they had hiked upwards.
The views at the top were unparalleled. Cultus Lake lay to the southwest, and to the south down the Chilliwack River valley lay Mount Baker, Tomyhoi Peak, the Border Peaks, Mount Slesse, and Mount Rexford. We decided then and there that no matter how difficult the descent, we would be glad we came. For half an hour, we sat at the top drinking in the surrounding beauty and nourishing our bodies and spirits. Yes, the mountains indeed declare the Glory of God.
Getting to our feet, we were aware the descent that lay before us would be no easy matter. Those scree slopes mentioned earlier? Awful to scramble down! With younger knees perhaps the two of us could have leapt along like mountain goats, but parts of the body begin to creak after decades of use, and each step forward had to be placed strategically and carefully. We couldn't afford a misstep, so we fought a knee-grinding fight against gravity all the way down. Our thigh muscles cried out, and the trail seemed twice as long going down as it had coming up. In fact, when we neared the end, we faced a steep climb, but surprisingly we bounced upwards with relief. Five hours earlier when this uphill was a downhill, the spectre of facing it when our energy was spent was foreboding--not in a million years would we have thought of it in relation to pleasure. The uphill quickly ended, though, and the downward agony returned.
Though neither of us said it aloud, we were both watching for another distance marker, yet secretly neither of us wanted to find one in case we were to discover we had a long way still to go. Finally, however, the 0.5 km. marker came into view. I cheerfully pointed it out to Ruth and quickly converted the distance to "about 500 or so more steps." She smiled ruefully, and replied, "Not when my steps are only four inches long." We had to laugh--it seems all our hikes have at least one laugh line that sticks with us, and that is sure to be one of them.
A few minutes later, we could hear the laughter of several younger hikers who had earlier sprung lithely past us, and we could see a glimpse of something silver through the trees. We had pushed ourselves to do a hike that we thought was beyond us, and although we both suffered stiff muscles the next couple of days, it was a hike we would do again in a minute--that is, after we work on the thigh muscles a bit more.
Remember the peak we were wondering about? The one that seemed "awfully high"? When we got to the old logging road on the way down, I pulled out my binoculars and spotted the hand-gliders' windsock fluttering in the breeze. It was indeed our destination--perhaps it was a good thing we didn't know that on the way up.
