Whispering goodbyes, shrugging on my pack as I walk to the bear locker. Grabbing the food, a muffin in my teeth as I set my poles, walking quick through a campground just starting to stir. The sun is up – somewhere – it hasn’t hit the walls of this valley yet. Cool air, flat grey light, and far away the thunder of the falls.

Cruising fast up a broad gravel path, feel a niggle in my shin, try to relax my foot as I walk and maybe it helps. Pass the next campground. Pass some hikers heading out. Pass some junctions as I turn up toward the hut and The Iceline. Flowers line the path in a shady forest. My legs aren’t tired, just this niggle in my shin and suddenly I’m at the hut. I stop and eat and force myself to rest. A guy carries a huge jug of water back to the hut. The outhouse door slams and someone half asleep stumbles back to bed.

Eventually I’m out of things to do. Shoulder the pack. Carry on up. Full sun now. Glaciers everywhere sending torrents of water down thick as milk with the rock dust. Boulders and gravel and debris, but also little plants, moss campion, avens.

I stop for lunch at a nice stream for filtering water. I don’t know about the gorgeous turquoise lake just around the corner. When I see it, I head straight up to the pass above. Take another rest up there to enjoy it. I’ve got the time. I’ve walked fast and I’m proud of my pace. Haven’t felt my knees, or the shin, come to think of it.

But now I leave behind easy trail. My first alternate of the GDT. Picking my way down. Ginger steps on loose boulders. Now the quads are burning as I try to be slow and controlled. Takes forever when I go this slow. I stop to rest and there’s still a lot more to go. Finally down the worst of the boulders and the route is choked with willow. I’m pulled deeper and deeper into it until I realise I’ve gone wrong and fight out to the side of the valley. Still not easy, but passable. Finally I make it to a lush green meadow, boggy but pleasant in the noonday. Took longer to get down than go up and I’m eager to keep moving.

Steeply up through the forest. Pull my way up between tree trunks. Catch a group of old timers as they are stopping to rest. One fella did the GDT decades ago. Chat a bit but make sure to leave first so we don’t keep leap-frogging. Now an open sunny slope to the gap. Flowers all the way up. Make good time on this ascent too.

Steep scree descent, incredibly steep. Just barely possible for a while. Near treeline I have to keep checking the phone so I don’t miss the trail. I find it and it is easy to follow through the woods. Some logs to hop over but suspiciously little deadfall for an unofficial trail in a National Park. A meadow in the forest on the way down is another riot of flowers.

And now I’m down to the old fire road, the main route, and I’ve done an alt and it was certainly harder but it went fine and I know I have it within me to do other alts, and so I have to push myself to try. This is my goal this trip: to push myself to go faster and choose the hard ways.

The main route is notoriously overgrown, but where I’ve rejoined it I’m already passed the worst. It’s brushy but it hardly slows me down and it gets clearer as I get closer to the pass. Late afternoon now, overcast and cooling down. Looks like rain. Feels like rain. Forecast said no rain so I don’t worry about it. I reach Amiskwi Pass at 6 and eat my last snacks to get me to supper. I have to decide whether to cruise down on the main route to an established campground or thrash my way up to the ridge, wild camp, and take another alt tomorrow.

It’s not raining. It’s not supposed to rain. I feel okay. I can at least check it out. I find some flagging in the trees and I’m drawn up, hunting for the next flag and then the next. It is steep. There’s no trail. There is deadfall. I’m sweating and tired and hungry and I don’t feel like doing this but I can see where the top probably is. I might be halfway. Be a waste to turn around. I don’t really think about it. Panting, sweat-drenched, legs burning, I know I should stop but I just want to be done with it. Suddenly I’m up.

Marble grey sky really looks like rain. The flagging is gone and I don’t think anyone else is up here. The old timers weren’t coming this way. I pick the first flat spot near a water source. I can see the ridge I’ll have to climb to do the alt and I’m not up for it tonight. My wet shirt clings cold to my skin and I’m feeling my knees and my shin.

Dump the pack. Tie up the bear bag. Pitch the tent. Put on warms. The rain starts. Light drops, light breeze, light fading. I’m not under shelter but there are trees around and it feels lonely not exposed. Hurry up and make the food. It’s hot and I gulp it down as fast as I can, inhaling air to cool each mouthful as I chew. Into the tent to listen to the pattering of rain. I can just go back down tomorrow if it’s storming. It’s not supposed to. I’m fine. I can do it.

I wake up a little stiff. Fly is wet inside and out but it stopped raining a few hours ago. I feel impatient to get underway. I always feel that way on hikes these days. It’s all the unpacked bits of gear and chores and wet tents and cold hands. But it’s just until I start walking. Everything gets simple when I start walking so I just want to get through breakfast and set my poles and go.

Low cloud ceiling but the forecast still says no rain so I head up. One knee is still feeling a bit tweaky from overdoing it at the end, yesterday. That’s no reason not to try. Just take it easy. I am far above the valley but higher mountains surround me, upper slopes lost in clouds. Icefields on either side of me poke their toes down out of the clouds. The rock is interesting, geometric fractures, like a giant board game underfoot. I work my way along, no trail, just picking a line and heading north. I get cliffed out once and have to backtrack a few minutes and make a sketchy downclimb because I don’t want to backtrack further to an easier way. I know it’s dumb as I do it. I get down and tell myself not to do that again.

Towards the end of the ridge, it gets easy, a whale back covered in flowers. The summit before the descent turns out to be nearly hollow, with great crevices in the broken stone washed out underfoot. As I descend I check my phone frequently to find the flagging. It’s steep but easy going. I hit a burn, the trees so black they are shiny, almost silver. I see the main route and cut straight down for it. I did another alt. It is only late morning and I feel like I’ve stayed within myself. There was no fear or drama or ordeal. The views were worth it and I’m feeling fine.

This stretch between Yoho and Banff is managed by the GDTA and it is so evident the love they have poured into this little piece of trail. Fresh logs cut, orange rocks verging the tread, beautiful carved signs, armoured switchbacks, and oh the bridges. They are beautiful, placed almost artistically to span great boulders straddling a torrent, or framing a waterfall. The GDTA’s offers to do trail maintenance in the parks have been spurned, and their outlet is in sections B, D, and G and I am the delighted beneficiary as I cruise down to the Blaeberry. The culmination is a 15 meter long twin log bridge over the river that bounces and dips in the middle of the span. It is safe but it feels extraordinarily adventurous.

Now I’m walking up to Howse Pass and the trail is a bit worse. At an avalanche slide I pause and check my progress. I’ve badly miscalculated. It’s mid afternoon and I still have a dozen clicks to go. I’ve been taking it easy, feeling like the hard part is behind me, but I need to push the pace. I make Howse Pass after five. My campsite is getting close, but my shin is killing me and now that I’m back in Banff the trail of sawdust is over. I must climb and crawl and bushwhack when the deadfall is impassible.

The last kilometre takes an hour before I stagger out of the woods and onto the floodplain. I find a good spot to camp. Same time as last night, same sky, same drizzle of rain. Inhale the food, dive into the tent, try to rub and stretch the shin as best I can. It’s a new pain to me. The knees are also sore but that’s familiar and they’ll be better after a rest.

I take my time in the morning, limping around doing camp chores. There is a painful stretch when I move my right ankle. Hope it loosens up. The clouds are lifting, tearing, eroding, leaving rifts of blue that grow through the day. I follow the river north. It’s flat, easy going at first and I try to take advantage because I know there will be frustrating, slow sections ahead. But I don’t push it too hard. I’m trying to manage the leg, not let it get too bad.

Flowers all along the gravel flats, but then the river sweeps to my side of the valley and I am squeezed into the forest, a trackless tangle of dense confier. Little scrambles up riverside cliffs, wading through side channels. The cold feels good on the shin but the pressure on my ankle as I lift my foot through the water cancels it out.

At noon I am in a marsh. No trail, just wet tussocks and willow. It’s energy sapping and the day has turned hot. I stop to eat and feel a bit better. I’m just about halfway out. Again – too soon – the river pushes me into the forest to try to follow some tread and flagging. Trees scratch and grab at me, juniper shrubs whip at my enraged lower leg and now I’m really hobbling, groaning as I lift the leg over log after log.

Very gradually the way is getting clearer. I can take several steps between obstacles, and after a time, it is brushy with frequent deadfall, that is, it is merely bad trail, but it is a real trail now not just crashing through thick woods. I reach a campground and lounge on a hillside overlooking the river. I hope this rest can reset my shin a bit. I dig into my first aid kit and pop advil, the first time I’ve done this on a hike. I dry out my socks and shoes for a bit.

I figure I’m feeling as good as I ever will. Six clicks to the car. I’ll make it. The pain comes back as soon as I start walking and I’m mad about it. I know I have the strength and fitness to blast the remaining distance out and finish smiling but this shin is spoiling my victory march.

Try to enjoy the day. It’s perfect. Warm with a nice breeze. The trail keeps improving. Make a game of it. Can’t check how far is left until believe I’ve gone 500m. I count steps, and when I’m sure I’ve done the distance I force myself to do another 100 steps just to be safe. I’m still short. It’s a blow. I re-calibrate and repeat the challenge, this time going well past my goal.

I do make it, eventually. Suddenly I’m in the front country at Mistaya Canyon. Tourists saunter around in flip flops. I try not to limp noticeably. It feels like a long way up to the parking lot from the canyon.

And there’s Ellie! Crawling, eating a banana, curious about papa’s sunglasses. And I’m changing and chugging water and trying to readjust to traffic and pavement and conversation and trying to decide what I learned on this hike. It is two things. It is that I am middle aged and random overuse injuries are going to happen on some trips, but also that I can hike hard things alone with margin to spare. I can choose the hard routes.