Page 2

The skis, however, were promising. They represented an activity. They had a note on them, “To Shauna and Kenny. Love, Daryl,” written in Daryl’s nearly illegible handwriting. This was baffling. How were Shauna and I to use these large skis? And there was only one pair. Daryl explained that they were his skis and they were there to represent the day out we would have together and that he would rent us skis in order for us to go. I nearly short-circuited. The best part was that we actually went. Now this was my first real Christmas gift.

Walking into the Norseman cross country ski shop to rent skis is a foggy memory for me, except for the smell of pine tar and the feel of purple kick wax. The pine tar smells like both the words in its name simultaneously. A vegemite kind of smell — love it or hate it. I also liked how, when I touched the wax, it created strings between my finger and the wax stick. I still play with ski wax.

We sized the skis to the vertically extended wrist, poles to the armpit and boots with thick wool socks on. Daryl paid the rental fee for skis, boots and poles, which was a few dollars each set, and we went clattering out the door. This was the first of what was to become a lifetime of trip logistics for me. Now that I am a mountain guide, I understand that these were not mere tools. They were a vehicle to my soul.

The drive out west to the mountains is as clear and crisp in my memory as the day. It was the first trip in my memory of going west; west into the bold Canadian Rockies. We were in Daryl’s first car; a Rambler sedan. It was cold. Really cold, and the car strained through the thick minus-20-degree air.

At Scott Lake hill, we were all lurching forward in our seats in an effort to help the car make it up the hill. We passed Morley and, as we were walled by the mountains on either side of the road, the anticipation of the day enveloped me. The tall and striking summits on either side of the car carried strength yet, at the same time, were inviting. Daryl knew some of the names of the peaks, which I found impressive. Their names hinted to a history, which gave them character.

What I remember most about the drive was the park gate. For a boy of seven, with a natural draw to the outdoors, this was the equivalent to the gates of heaven. The log architecture of the National Park gate booths were so completely laden with snow they were like some magical gingerbread house. They completely fit the landscape and they reached out to me. They still do today. When we crossed the threshold, I remember feeling like I had come home for the first time in my short life.

The deep, deep snows of 1972 created a world I had never experienced before. Everything was so pristine, quiet and peaceful. Cold comfort. It was then that I realized that life could be magic; really magic. It was that moment I learned, though I could not articulate it in words at the time, that natural places have great power to inspire the human spirit.

We were going to Johnston Canyon and the inkpots. I did not know what an inkpot was. Daryl reminded me of the ink well holes in our desks at school. I had seen the holes but had never seen an inkpot. I asked, “Why ink?” Daryl said, “Because they are deep pools of water and, because they are deep, they are dark blue or black.”

We arrived at the parking lot with the car tires squeaking on the cold snow as we slowed down, decreasing in pitch. We stepped out of the car and were met with the visual and tactile world of snow. The buildings were deeply buried as were the trees (straining from the weight of it all), the old log signposts and the bridges. The features were buried and barely discernable. There is a silence that comes with so much snow. Snow is a great insulator and it made everything cozy, even though it was cozy, through the dampening of sound.

Continued on next page