Traveling solo in Banff National Park

Lindsay Wiese-Amos
9 min readOct 19, 2018

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On most of my hikes in Banff National Park, I would cross paths with other hikers. People would greet me with a smile and ‘hello,’ and others paused to discuss the scenery and then eventually question if I was hiking alone. When they learned about my week-long, solo trip, I heard variations of “You’re brave,” and “Please be careful out there.” I did feel brave for traveling alone—but this bravery didn’t stem from facing fears connected to wild animals, unpredictable weather, or unmarked trails; it stemmed from being content with silence.

One year ago, solo trips terrified me. I was traveling alone constantly for work and wrestling with misalignments. And, for the first time in my life, I was overwhelmed by anxiety. There was a weight on my chest that wouldn’t lift and an overwhelming sadness that evolved into depression. I felt broken, and then I got help. The journey was hard, but slowly my head cleared and the weight lifted. I was no longer scared to be alone with my thoughts.

When I found myself facing two months of temporary retirement, I wanted to take a solo trip. On this trip, I wanted to think through this last year— committing everything I learned about myself and the valuable tools I gained to memory—all while exploring this incredible world on foot. Hello, Banff National Park.

Lake Louise: Little Beehive and Big Beehive

My first hike took me to Lake Louise to visit the (now closed for the winter) Lake Agnes Tea House. Lake Louise is a popular tourist destination, but the early snowfall deterred most people from climbing up to the teahouse — and deterred even more from venturing off to the Little Beehive trail and Big Beehive trail. With Yaktraxs and hiking poles, this was a safe hike; for those missing gear, I watched them slide down the trail.

I wasn’t quite ready to be in solitude, which made Lake Louise a great start to my adventure. While hiking, I met a couple from London. They were traveling in an RV around Canada for a few months, and we bonded over our shared love of travel. Travel brings people together.

I spoke with a family, also from London; the dad was drenched in sweat from carrying their two-year old up the mountain. After offering him trail mix, we fell into a conversation about the beauty that surrounded us and the need to have a positive impact in the world to keep that beauty intact. (He wasn’t quite sure his career as a tax accountant was having that impact.) Food brings people together.

Then, there was the couple from Minnesota. They were on their honeymoon and were taking photos with baby booties to announce her pregnancy. We had known each other for only ten minutes, and I was beaming with excitement. Babies bring people together.

Before we went our separate ways, the woman shared that she could never travel solo. I assured her that she could, and she’d likely enjoy it. Throughout the week, I came across this sentiment multiple times. People feared solo travel, but they also had an underlying yearning to go on a similar adventure. Find the courage to pursue an intimidating experience.

Cory and Edith Passes

Yet again, I did not spend this hike thinking through my last year. Instead, I spent five hours in intense concentration—balancing on steep ledges, keeping track of the trail, and scrambling up boulders. Websites label this hike as “difficult,” and as of October 11, the trail is “not recommended” on the Banff National Park website given the condition.

I started to doubt my sanity on this hike. Multiple times I questioned whether I was on the trail; a lone plastic marking ribbon would assure me. I doubted my footing when the trail took me up (and down) icy boulders. I went into flight-or-fight when I found animals tracks—wolf tracks or family dog? (I would shake my body throughout the five hour hike to rattle the bear bell attached to my pack.) To add to my frame of mind, the wind picked up in intensity as it was pushed through the pass—causing the trees to loudly creak.

Once I reached the peak, I made my way over the ridge and found myself in knee-deep snow. The wind had erased most of the trail, but I focused on the footprints that were still visible and made my way to these momentary reliefs. Again and again, I would pick out my next location and struggle against the snow. This section either took me ten minutes or one hour before I was surrounded by trees again; it’s a blur. And throughout, I had flashbacks of the films Into Thin Air and Picnic at Hanging Rock. I wasn’t in the best mental state.

I ran the last two miles down the mountain—thrilled to be able to move quickly and get back to the comfort of my car. I sat in my rental car, heated seats activated, and took a deep breath. We are meant to discover this world— be inspired by it; but the journey isn’t always easy, and it should always be respected.

Yoho National Park: Wapta Falls

After Cory Pass, I opted to keep off the ridges (7,800 ft) and stroll to Wapta Falls (3,700 ft). This was the tamest of all my hikes, which gave me the headspace to think about something other than foot placement. I have two mantras that I have repeated throughout my adult life. The first being “Eventually this will end,” and the second being, “If you’re not scared, you’re not learning.” Only the second is relevant here — and the first would take some explanation to convince you that I’m not insane.

I thought about the things that have scared me in my life; situations where I had the option to say no and avoid feelings of anxiety, but decided to say yes. If I had allowed myself to succumb to that feeling, I would have missed out on experiences that have helped me define the impact I want to have throughout my life. I have taken risks in my career, athletics, and relationships; and while these moves do not define me, they do shape me. It is worth experiencing life; it is worth taking risks.

Yoho National Park: Emerald Lake + Emerald Basin trail

There are pros and cons to traveling solo. The top reason to travel solo: you alone decide how you’ll spend every moment of your trip—and when life is full of compromises, experiencing this felt like cheating. The runner-up though: you meet more people when you travel alone; you’re approachable.

Before my hike, I had lunch at Emerald Lake Lodge. My server and I connected over our love for love. She told me stories about weddings hosted at the lodge and how she cries watching strangers’ ceremonies. I could relate. (That evening, I had another conversation over a meal. I was sat at the bar next to another solo customer, and over the next hour, he told me snippets of his life story. He also alluded to the fact that I’m old at 30.)

On the Emerald Basin trail, I crossed paths with another hiker. He was standing perfectly still and looking intently into the trees. He whispered that he was watching the rare black-backed woodpecker. We birdwatched together, and before I continued hiking, I told him he has a good eye. He shared that it isn’t about the eye, but the ear; he could hear the woodpecker. I smiled, said “Good ear,” and continued on. While this connection was brief, it reminded me about the importance of staying present and not dulling my senses with audiobooks and podcasts. (And I wouldn’t, until the last hike, when I played a podcast to alert animals to my presence.)

What are we missing by our constant distractions? What are we missing by not being approachable?

Johnston Canyon to Inkpots

Johnston Canyon is popular for its many waterfalls. The main event is creatively named “Upper Falls.”

The trail was busy with hikers—many were not prepared for the icy conditions, unfortunately. Their tennis shoes would act as sleds, and send them sliding down the trail, gripping onto the railing to keep balance. I wasn’t surprised to find most people stopped at the Upper Falls and didn’t continue on to discover the Inkpots (i.e. five blue-green pools formed by spring water percolating up through the sand and gravel).

I found the Inkpots fascinating, and said so audibly to no one. I then cleaned snow off a bench and ate lunch — watching the Inkpots and absorbing one of the most beautiful scenes of my trip.

I spent a lot of time on this hike with my thoughts—thinking through the epiphanies I had over the last few months that led to life changes; my priorities and how to wrestle with the fact these priorities can be conflicting; and even the impact I want to have throughout my life. The notes in my phone are unintelligible to anyone other than myself. I’ll interpret some of them—without getting too personal—in the hopes of providing someone with helpful insight. I call these mind quotes:

  • I admire others for their compassion, empathy, and willingness to give; not their achievements. It is unfair to myself to correlate my worth to different standards.
  • While motivation to achieve comes from within, accomplishments are better when the experience is shared with a community.
  • The ideal career enables you to have a positive impact in the world; the ideal work environment provides the opportunity to share experiences, as you all work to be impactful.
  • Family is priority, but I am a better wife, daughter, and sister when time is allocated to physical and mental health.

Prairie View Trail to Jewell Pass

I started Prairie View trail with the weight of knowing this would be my last hike in Banff. After a week of solo travel, I had proven to myself that I was content with silence—and that I had internalized the months of hard work I put into therapy and self reflection. And then, for the first time this trip, I played a podcast instead of hiking with only a bear bell for noise pollution.

The podcast played loudly—mostly to scare away the bears and coyotes—but to also take off some of the pressure. The last hike. I must have another life changing epiphany. I didn’t though. I was thousands of miles away from being that broken person I was a year ago. I would be leaving Banff grateful, appreciative, and inspired.

I was whole.

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Lindsay Wiese-Amos

When not communicating about tech, you can find me swimming, biking, running, hiking, traveling — generally failing at slowing down.