Since I last saw Sabrina, my days have been simple. I walked and filtered water and walked some more. As I sat on a rock waiting for my mom and Sabrina to get to the trailhead, I thought about how Sabrina has had a much busier rhythm.

Busier? I don’t know about that. Maybe more mentally cluttered. I’d been planning a video shoot at work and was deeply deconditioned after a month of barely exercising, or even moving. We’d also just gotten some pretty heartbreaking personal news, and I was still processing a lot of emotions. But after dropping you off at the Kananaskis Lakes trailhead to start your trip, a long jog around the lake left me feeling mentally restored enough that a few days in the backcountry sounded manageable and dare-I-say, even appealing. When I received Ben’s text hinting at loneliness, that settled it. I was going. If I could even in some small way help him achieve his goal of completing the full section, I wanted to.

I was really looking forward to hiking with my adventure buddy again, but in all honesty, I was a little bit concerned that this would be too hard to be enjoyable for her. Normally we’re very well matched when hiking but as mentioned, Sabrina had been forced to decondition for the past month, and the next four days were going to be quite a serious trek. On top of that, I had gotten very lucky with weather so far, but the forecast was supposed to get a lot wetter. Still, if I had any reservations, they were completely forgotten when their car pulled in. It was like I got an instant contact high.

“There he is!!!” I cried as Jen turned right into the trailhead parking lot. I was prepared to greet a downtrodden Ben, a calorie-deficit Ben. We’d brought fresh socks, car towel, and a variety of snacks, including enough mother-made sandwiches to feed at least three Bens. We had a resupply of toilet paper and meds. I was ready to accept my Hero Wife pageant sash. Alas, a very different Ben came loping towards the car. To my wary disappointment, Ben was dry, chipper, and ate only a very reasonable amount of our proffered food. The three of us chatted and ate for about a half hour while I hunted for something lacking in Ben’s kit that we could replace from our trunk of goodies. Finally, having grabbed only the toilet paper (plus a new pair of non-cotton boxers that he’d requested) we hoisted our packs, said a giant thank you to Jen for driving hours to give us a shuttle, and headed off down the trail.

I then got to meet a new Ben, heretofore unseen. After five days of being almost entirely alone, my darling introvert husband started talking and, like a friendly drunk bridesmaid, didn’t stop for the next three hours.

I didn’t know bridesmaids are known for being chatty!

Obviously you’ve never been cornered in a bathroom by an entire bachelorette party.

I also didn’t know I was being so chatty until, hours later, I noticed that my voice was getting hoarse.

It was truly a joy, don’t worry. I’d missed you and it was heartwarming to see how much my presence was welcomed.

The rest of the day was a steady climb up the opposite side of the valley from where I had descended that morning. The same fire had scorched both slopes. Under a grey sky constantly threatening rain, we enjoyed open views obscured only when the soaking bushes growing into the trail were too tall to see over. Despite the how popular this trail is, I was still able to find a few ripe raspberries that other hikers had passed over.

We moved at a slow-steady pace up the majority of the climb. Ben’s chattiness was even more welcomed as my lungs got reacquainted with the rhythm of hiking and I tried not to compare his fresh-faced mien to my dripping brow. We followed the gentle grade up and around the mountain and stopped at a fast-moving stream. Ben revealed that one of the two soft flasks that we use to gather and filter our water had started leaking the other day. Peering closely, I could see a spot where the laminate had started to lift from the plastic beneath. By pinching hard and working together, it was usable (though, spoiler alert: this temporary fix eventually failed and by trip’s end our flasks were clinging by a thread).

Upward and upward, through bushes that seemed far too overgrown for the trail’s popularity. I tried to drag my eyes from my boots every once in awhile to appreciate where I was. Not on my back in a doctor’s office, not stuck in a car for another multi-hour drive. I was in the mountains — new mountains! But my gratitude stumbled when the trail started to steepen.

The climb was no joke. I was so grateful that the rain had mostly held off. It sucks hiking up a steep hill wearing waterproofs. You feel as wet from sweat as if you had just let the rain get you. At the very least we never needed to put on our rain pants, despite the occasional donation from crowding bushes.

I was also keeping half an eye on Sabrina, wondering how she was going to handle tomorrow when we will experience this kind of elevation not once but three times. She is such an unbelievably strong person. Just the fact that she chose to come on this trip is evidence. It would have been completely reasonable — some would argue medically advisable! — for her to have declined and just continued to build back up slowly. And here she is instead, powering up a long ascent with a full pack.

At last, we reached high ground and the path levelled off. Through the trees we heard the happy sound of people setting up camp. We were at the famous Floe Lake. Ben, now the expert at setting up our new tent, got busy showing me the ropes. A couple came by to express admiration for the tent (it’s got quite an online fan-base) and I could tell how tired I was by my lack of enthusiasm (usually I LOVE talking about gear to anyone who makes the mistake of asking). We made dinner, and were just snuggling under our sleeping quilts for the night when we heard the patter of rain on the fly. I couldn’t believe our luck.

It was lovely sharing a trip again. We had taken turns collecting water from the frigid lake at the foot of a towering rock wall. The lake is named for the floes of ice that break off a glacier and bob along in the wind. From the eating area we looked out over a stone beach to the grey, choppy water, a view that did as much to make me shiver as the breeze. We took turns eating spoonfuls of steaming rehydrated pasta and it was the kind of wild night that would feel lonely if I wasn’t sharing it with my favourite person in the world.

By the morning the skies had rained themselves out and it was calm. The sun peaked out at breakfast and I felt glad for the day and the company.

I, on the other hand, got about ten minutes of bright morning hiking under my belt before the tears began. Despite being ahead of me, Ben quickly clocked the signs: I kept dropping back, shuffling my feet, delivering one-word answers from beneath a downcast head. You know, real subtle, stiff-upper-lip type of stuff. When he insisted on waiting with me no matter my pace, I kept declaring (like a wounded soldier in battle) “go on without me, this is as fast as I can go, I’m just holding you up.”

You know I’m not going to go on without you! I have never gone on without you! You have the stove! What I actually said was that you were hiking steadily up a steep slope and we were doing just great and it’s a beautiful morning and there was no rush and I’m so pleased to share this with you and eventually the crisis of confidence evaporated with the mist off the lake now far below us.

Sabrina gets what we call “Tricky Brain” every now and then. Some little thing will trigger a spiral of worry and self-doubt. It’s unusual for it to happen in the morning and on trail, but it had been an emotionally wringing summer. A few gentle words pulled her out and after a short rest, we continued up through a fresh sunny morning on opening slopes to the pass.

Slow and steady we climbed 300 metres toward Numa Pass, the first of three passes we were due to traverse that day. I flopped onto the ground only once. On the descent (800 metres but who’s counting) we took a break by a creek and dried out the tent over a bridge. Then it was time to climb another 700 metres up to Tumbling Pass. My only saving grace during this steep and rocky stretch was the fact that tall, overgrown bushes kept me mostly in the shade. The day was getting warm though, and as soon as ray touched skin the hissing and wilting hit me like a brick wall. I felt like I was climbing Everest, like I couldn’t get enough oxygen. I had to stop every few steps up the switchbacks to bend over my poles and catch my breath. When I started getting dizzy we sat. Ben snagged a video of my sweat-soaked head lolling back against my pack, soul vacating my body. This is a very rude reentry to fitness, I said. At last we reached the top. Just one pass left.

She loves it when I capture these magical moments, her jaw slack and eyes unfocused.

It was a beast of a pass and we hit it right in the heat of the day. Before heading back down, the trail toured us beside a series of small glaciers on the shaded face of the famous Rockwall, a near-unbroken cliff band that stretches much of the length of the trail. It marks the western border of Kootenay National Park. There is only one weakness in that mighty rampart, a gap called Wolverine Pass and we were making for it. We had no reservation that night in the park, but by making it through the gap, we could random camp just outside the boundary. But that was still hours away, on the other side of a steep valley.

The afternoon had worn on by the time we made it down to the creek at the bottom. We took a long rest there. We weren’t sure if there would be a good water source at the Wolverine random camp, so we cameled up and filtered several litres of water with our deteriorating water collection bags. We also needed to regroup our strength before the final climb.

All that stood between me and a sleeping bag was 300 metres of elevation gain. We passed through Tumbling Creek campground, marveling at how many Big Agnes tents we saw. With the heat of the day behind us and a soft, celestial light shining through Wolverine Pass in the distance, we made good time up the climb and were soon in a sparsely treed alpine meadow.

Despite ticking over 20 kilometers and 1,000 meters of elevation gain, Sabrina looked almost fresh as we neared the end of our day. It really shows how much heat affects her.

We turned off the trail and headed through the gap in the Rockwall, the golden glow of the setting sun bathed the cliffs around us. Between a small rise and a stand of trees we pitched our tent. It felt remote and isolated, like my wild camp five days earlier, but I did not feel alone and I did not feel anxious. Sabrina was in her element, triumphant at her strength to make it so far, and reveling in the gorgeous location.

We were completely alone, and it was so so beautiful. Feeling like we had the entire wilderness to ourselves, I walked out to the rocky rise next to our camp and stared down at the valley that lay beyond the national park’s borders. The tent went up fast, with the pegs tucking easily into the soft grassy spot that had been tamped down by past campers.

I was ready for it to be cold, being up at a pass, but I slept well with another warm body in the tent. We were up in good time in the morning. For some reason I find it easier to get going when there aren’t a lot of other people around. I scarfed some oatmeal and watched the line of sun creep down the cliffs towards us while Sabrina went to see what she could give.

By “give,” he means go number two. If someone is feeling philanthropic (aka the pipes are flowing) they may “give generously.” On a stingy day, say, after eating nothing but ham and cheese in Spain, one might respond to the question ‘did you give?’ with a dejected “no.” Usually on backpacking trips I am unable to give. Anyway, Wolverine Pass must’ve been extra magical because I woke up feeling generous. I followed a game trail far from the tent, seeking an appropriate place to squat.

She came back, looking impishly pleased with herself.

“Success?”

“Yes, and I didn’t even have to dig a hole. I used a groundhog hole!”

I just looked at her for a beat. I don’t think the horror had really registered with her. She hadn’t thought about the consequences of her crime. The implications for the resident.

“You – a groundhog hole?”

We both suddenly howled with laughter. Tears streamed down her face.

We’re lucky no one was around to hear us. But in my defense! I didn’t clog anything; I won’t go into explicit detail here but there was a root that separated out a third of the hole and it was into that annex that I donated. Generously.

Anyway.

We headed off for the day, filling up our water bottles from the anemic stream that trickled a few hundred metres from camp. Our collection flasks were almost toast by this point, and only Ben’s strong climbers fingers could keep the seam sealed enough to squeeze it through the filter.

It was such a peaceful morning, walking on the long flat Rockwall Pass. It was open, calm and sunny, with only sparse larches and fir trees. We cruised along the alpine beside tiny glaciers and tarns. We descended to a boulder field with a milk-blue creek where we rested in the warming morning. After climbing over a more densely forested saddle we descended into a huge rock bowl. In front of us roared Helmet Falls.

At the nearby campground we had a good rest and a few chocolate bars, anticipating the long climb up Goodsir Pass. In the end it actually wasn’t that bad, with good shade coverage and well-graded switchbacks. At the top we saw two runners standing on a rock. I recognized one as a Canmore-based ultrarunner I follow on Instagram. Feeling very creepy, I asked, “are you Chris by any chance?” We didn’t linger long, not least because I didn’t want to seem like a crazy stalker who had tracked him into the wilderness (with my husband? sure why not).

We had topped up our water at a spring near the top of the pass, but I had badly underestimated the descent. Just looking at topo lines, it looked like a smooth, steady drop. It looked shady. But the trail crosses several avalanche slopes with chest high bushes and some deadfall. The path is also narrow and slanted a bit sideways in many places. The sun that had seemed so pleasant 5 hours ago now beat down on us and we started to run low on water and energy. Because of the sidesloping, Sabrina’s knee began to hurt. I enforced frequent breaks to eat and rest and share the last of our water. There were streams on the map, but whenever we reached their blue lines, there was no sign of flowing water. After a hot, slow afternoon, the trail finally began to widen and level out. We had made it over the final pass of the section.

More importantly, we made it to water. There was a fast-flowing and wide river about a kilometre before our campground, and the community notes in our FarOut navigation app said to fill up here. The river by the campground was heavy with silt, they said. We heeded their warning. I soaked my swollen feet in the ice cold water while Ben test-drove our new water filtration system. The collection flasks were by now completely unusable, and we switched to using the water bottles themselves (one bottle would receive the filtered water, while the appointed collection bottle of “dirty water,” would be treated with an Aquatab).

McArthur Creek Campground was a welcome sight, with a dramatic overlook of a horseshoe bend in another river (which was indeed disgustingly silty). Here, we saw a fellow Durston tenter!

It was a funny campground. Much of the forest was dead, giving it a very open feel with just a few tall standing conifers creaking above us. Between the paths and tent pads the ground was covered in deadfall, and the tent pads themselves come in very odd shapes. Sabrina set up the tent for the last time while I cooked supper for the last time before we nestled into our quilts for the last time.

Expecting rain around noon, we left without any fuss the next morning. We had several hours to walk on a viewless fire road. I was cold without a pass to climb and took a long time before I had warmed up. Clouds threatened us all the way, but over our years of hiking, we have learned a hard and fast rule: finish smiling. So we still stopped to rest and snack and I was even able to give once, and so the long morning never crossed over from boring to painful. We reached the car just as the first raindrops started to fall.

Thank goodness. In the preceding days, Ben more than once asked me if I was sure I’d parked it in the right place. I was 98% sure, having double checked our location on both the FarOut app, and the trailhead signboard. It was a quick drive to Field, where we gassed up the car and got hearty meals from The Siding Cafe. Then it was time to scoot the four hour drive home. Along the way, Ben pointed out other sections of the Great Divide Trail that he’ll no doubt get to, in time.

I was so happy that I’d joined Ben for half of his trip. I returned home feeling better than I left, and with a good lil kickstart to my lost fitness. And despite how hard all those passes were for me, I still plan to run (at least part of) The Rockwall at some point.

It was a dream trip. Though a bit more crowded than some past hikes, the places it took me justify their popularity. More than that, I had gotten outrageously lucky with weather. This was probably the biggest factor for why this trip ended so much better than last year’s Section E. That and the gear upgrades we made. I felt like this was a step up for my confidence and experience backpacking, and to have Sabrina join me made the Rockwall section feel like a victory lap. We solved problems like the water filter as a team and supported each other and shared so many memorable views and laughs.