GREAT DIVIDE TRAIL
GDT: SECTION D
Section D is a mere 66 miles, but you’ll move at a snail’s pace through overgrown willows, endless deadfall, steep tallus slopes and along the beautiful Howse River, which you skirt on floodplain and through unmaintained forest.
Pro tips for Section D:
- This section is doable in four days, but it would likely be more satisfying in five.
- For my American friends: Canada has outlawed the use of permethrin sprays for self-treating clothes.
- Take the Kiwetinok Alternate on the Iceline Trail. It is astoundingly beautiful.
- Keep everything inside your tent and out of reach of the aggressive porcupines.
A moraine hump demanding to be climbed with views of Takakkaw Falls, Canada’s second highest.
Day Twenty-three, Takakkaw Falls to meadow below Kiwetinok Pass, 10 miles
After a very relaxing rest in Golden with a variety of restaurant cuisines, a grocery store, gear store and many motel options, we prepare for what has been considered the “black sheep” of the Great Divide Trail.
The GDTA website describes it as the shortest but most difficult. The trails are “unofficial” and “unmaintained,” with blowdowns, overgrown trail, river fords and route finding required. D is tough.
Even tougher when the weather is awful.
As we leave our motel planning to hitch back up to Field (skipping a five-mile walk on a very busy highway) we see two lovely rainbows. They don’t last long. A massive lightning strike hits nearby, followed in quick succession by a powerful crack of thunder, and of course, that’s followed by a downpour.
We scurry back inside wondering just exactly how we are going to manage this situation. There is a way to hike in from Blaeberry only a few miles north of town. We’d skip the high mountains but the forecast calls for nasty weather there as well.
I search on Facebook for any trail angels who might give us a hand or have an idea of how we should proceed. That’s when Dave Higgins, a GDT board member and someone we met way back in Section B building a bridge, reaches out.
He tells us he needs to run an errand this way anyway, so we agree to hitch when the rain stops up to the beautiful Yoho Visitor Center in Field. He’ll ferry us up the Yoho Valley Road to a spur trail that will gets us onto the Iceline Trail and Kiwetinok Alternate.
As of this writing, the official trail is still along the Amiskwi River, overgrown and horrible. The GDTA is apparently trying to change the official route to the Iceline. Of course, taking this spur puts us ahead by nine miles and 2,000 feet ahead, but this downpour is not supposed to move on until mid-day and we will need that leap ahead to stay on schedule.
Dave is part of the original contingent of dreamers coming up with the idea of a trail connecting all the national parks in the Canadian Rockies. He’s totally sanguine about leaving us to walk in exposed alpine terrain as thunderstorms roll in. “You won’t be the highest object.”
Somehow his attitude brings the sun out as we climb steeply up to the Iceline. And what a glorious place it is up here. Glaciers everywhere as well as lakes so blue you can hardly believe they’re real. The trail is cleared of boulders and views look across the deep valley to to Takakkaw Falls, the second highest in all of Canada.
Our original plan was to get as far as the Amiskwi River Ford, requiring climbing two high passes without any trail. We feel confident now on easy rolling moraine below spectacular Emerald Glacier calving into a river and tumbling down to Emerald Lakes. It’s so sunny we need sunscreen and sunglasses. It’s as though the storms never happened.
Most tourists stay at Yoho Lake or Little Yoho Campground and are tucked in as the sky goes black again. We, on the other hand, press forward towards the pass. It’s steep down, deep into forest, then right back up again. The views are astounding, the mountains enveloping our tiny selves.
And now, as any semblance of trail gets less distinct, we remember this is really how the GDT is. It’s as if you leave the beaten path and you enter untouched wilderness. At Kiwetinok Lake, forlorn and desolate in the gathering darkness, we realize smarter people would camp here, but it’s windy and exposed and our legs keep moving. One white-tailed ptarmigan stands very still almost blending in with the beautiful striped rock.
We’ve got this, we tell ourselves.. Well, we’ve got getting over the pass anyway and then down. I think.
At the saddle, thunder echoes through the valley as lighting bolts hit the nearby peaks. Should I stay or should I go? Decide quick and move fast is the answer. We see a meadow far below with a stream winding through. That’s our destination. Dave said it’s possible to camp there.
But now there is no trail whatsoever. This is a tallus slope. Large rocks that require careful steps, which means slow. Very, very slow to look where we can continue and not get cliffed out or meet with rock so large it’s impassable.
Funny it’s not raining. Thank the goddess for small miracles. But we keep our distance from each other and plan to toss our walking sticks should we feel any electricity. This is stupid and dangerous, but we’re committed.
It must take us an hour or two to get down, first on loose scree, then large tallus, then a chaotic wilderness of boulders. But we survive and meet the wet boggy meadow, still out of the rain and reasonably inviting.
A quick search reveals no good place to camp since the grass is sodden. So we opt for the rocky bars in the middle of the braided streams. It’s comfortable enough with a blowup mattress, but soon my tent is wet and cold.
As we find another area to eat, a young man seems to grow right out of the forest. He’s dressed in cotton and is desperate to figure out a place to set that will keep him dry.
He tells us that he doesn’t have the money to stay at Saskatchewan Crossing, so is carrying enough food to continue on into Section E. He’s using a canoe barrel to store it and attaches it to the bottom of his pack. Good lord, how will he manage the blowdowns and steep climbs through dense forest?
He camps nearby but we don’t see him again and wonder if maybe he climbed back up to the pass and gave up this section. What a way to start. I know we missed Burgess Pass by hitching a ride and its incredible fossil record, but with this weather, we might have missed it all. Instead we had a spectacular few hours on the Iceline with glorious views.
And tomorrow is another adventure.
Day Twenty-four, meadow below Kiwetinok Pass to Amiskwi Ridge, 10 miles
Here’s a pro-tip: don’t camp in a river.
Looking back, we took advantage of the day and did a lot by getting here. But we wake up cold and miserable. I begin to cry sort of non-stop, even though I get dressed, pack up and eat. I feel like I can’t go on but the girls keep me going and just like that, the sun comes out.
Right off the bat, we head straight up 1,200 feet through forest so dense, we can actually use the trees as a railing to heave forward. I slip in mud and faceplate, that’s how angled my body is to the ground. I slide a little, but stop myself on a fallen log.
This is fun.
When we pop out above treeline, we pull all our gear out and dry things. It’s actually lovely from here looking down on our snaking river and verdant meadow. It’s easy up to the gap and our spirits lift as we approach the cairn. Someone left a bottle of booze. A nice touch.
The first 200 feet or so are incredibly steep on loose scree. Other hikers have dug a channel that we follow slowly trying not to fall backwards. There’s another river far below. The view beyond is of trees working their way up rocky points, some snow covered.
The Canadian Rockies are lower than the Colorado Rockies. For example, this gap is only at 7,700 feet. But the glaciers dug deeper here, hollowing out valleys far lower than Colorado’s. The mountains appear higher and that’s accentuated by the fact that this far north, the treeline is lower.
The descent levels out a bit and the route takes shape. Someone tied orange ribbon through here as a guide. I don’t know if it’s officially allowed by the national parks.
The contortions that the GDTA appears to have to go through to make this trail happen are huge. This is because each national and provincial park along with the public lands and wilderness areas are overseen by different agencies with different priorities and rules.
That there’s no established trail through here except for fading orange ribbons makes no sense to me. It’s not as if decommissioning a trail will keep people off it. This all becomes even more mind boggling in Section E in the Maligne Valley and Section G with one dangerous river ford after another.
For now, the skies are clear and we’re making progress, even if deadly slow over fallen trees, overgrown alder and around massive puddles from the recent rains. A loud boom reverberates through the valley, but we’re kind of used to storms a this point and quickly, without discussing it, put our rain gear back on.
Still, it’s very far. This type of walking means two miles is an eternity. We cross a river of false hopes which simply delivers us to yet another mile of watching every step. Hey, at least the mosquitos aren’t out!
Finally we reach the GDT again, well at least a helpful sign and arrow someone carved into an aspen. It’s still overgrown, but easier walking up one more pass along a rushing stream. Then more blowdown, honestly not quite as bad as I had expected.
At this point we begin to notice huckleberries along the path. Their deep purple ripeness cries out to be eaten. We all walk haltingly now, stopping at each bush. I eat them one at a time, fast and in succession. But taking the time to collect a handful and pop them all in at once is an explosion of joy.
We reach a crossroads and wonder if it’s worth it to go up again onto an alpine ridge. The Amiskwi Lodge is up here and some small streams. We might make it the five miles up and over, and like in Section B, we don’t want to miss the glorious views of the Wapta Icefield.
It’s steep at first, but we come to a lovely clearing high above the lodge which is empty now. Taking a break to filter water, it becomes obvious the day is waning and without anywhere good to camp above, we’d need to walk the entire way without trail.
I’m not sure who suggests we camp right here, but it’s ideal looking out at the glacier playing peekaboo with a swirl of mist. We lazily set and talk, relaxed here in this lovely place. And just like that. after the last stake is in place, it begins to storm.
We all dive in, grateful we stopped in the nick of time. It’s a short violent downpour, but moves on long enough for us to make dinner and watch the sky turn cotton candy pink, the glacier still in view.
Day Twenty Five, Amiskwi Ridge to Howse Floodplain, 19 miles
Oh how I wanted clear skies today. I wished and prayed and hoped and pleaded. But no such luck.
We agree to leave by 7:00 since it’s a long haul to the Howse River and we’re behind schedule — plus we took on yet another high alternate.
The moon came out on a clear night creating a silvery glacier, but the morning is gray and dull. I’m not usually one to skip an adventure, but I am the one who says we need to skip this adventure.
Reluctantly we head back to the main trail, passing the lodge and using a very steep shortcut. Here we hit a forest road and take it instead of the trail, another “people mover” as the rain falls in earnest. We made the right choice as we would have seen nothing on a route that may have taken hours to locate.
It’s depressing here with a river far below and charred remains of a terrible wildfire. The road will descend that valley as it makes its way to the Blaeberry River. The GDTA trail crew built an alternate here called Collie Creek. It shaves off many steep miles and delivers us quickly down through a beautifully cleared mountainside. Way to go GDTA!
Mist rises and mountains hem us in as we see two people bouncing down towards us. Megan and Dan from section A! They’re in high spirits for some reason, maybe because they’re from Calgary and used to this. We chat a bit about what’s ahead, noting a very scary temporary log bridge awaits.
But that’s still miles away. We need to descend to the river first, one we’ll follow for most of the day. It’s a white torrent in all this rain and we come ever so close on eroded trail. I focus on never losing my footing, practicing for what’s ahead.
The sun comes out for a moment revealing a moss carpet. Loveliness in short bursts as we cruise fast through this dense forest of balsam scented needles. And then I can see where we’re headed.
The water is opaque with silty rock flour, deep and swift. Three logs are lashed together with two ropes for holding above your head, above strictly for balance. First, we descend a muddy cliff using a cleverly knotted rope, then the bridge beckons us across.
This is the only way out unless I want to go back to Blaeberry Road. We pack away our walking sticks and take a deep breath. Of course Katlyn is across in no time, but she is concentrated. That rope is far above our heads and won’t hold us if we slip. I go next, cautious, slow and making a low moan the entire way.
Is it fun? Sorta. It’s focused and intense. But the rush upon completing it makes the whole exercise worth it. Kelly is next and I can see her face now, like mine intent on placing each foot just right.
Dave Higgins was involved in building this bridge and told us they plan is to make a more permanent one soon. This is not a river that can be forded ever, even in dry summers so they need to find some solution. We follow the river to a rocky beach where we take a few minutes to dry our gear in the weak sunshine.
A bridge detached from its mooring rests on a sandbar and we hope it’s not a critical one. Most everyone is camping at Lambe Creek, a tiny campsite with a fire pit and table. But we move on, now swarmed by mosquitos and soaking wet brushing against overgrown shrubs. Many of those shrubs are huckleberries, so the feeding frenzy continues.
It’s steeply up one last time to Howse Pass, the location of the first major trade expedition westward led by David Thompson. There’s a sign, a boundary marker, even a fancy plaque way out here in the middle of nowhere.
I guess we are having a truly wild experience somewhat similar to Thompson and his crew. The way now is a bushwhack and hurdle over deadfall to Conway Creek and finally the Howse River. Tomorrow, we’ll follow the floodplain nearly all day to its end.
But for now, we find a place to set camp on slightly higher ground littered with Dr. Seuss-like flowers and a small seasonal seep working its way through for our water. There’s only time to set, eat and dive in before the rain returns.
Day Twenty-six, Howse Floodplain to Saskatchewan Crossing, 14 miles
Rain and tears. Tears and rain.
There is something soporific about rain pinging the tent, but I have had it. I just can’t get out of here into it even though there’s no other way out.
I cry loudly and Katlyn takes pity, her hand coming under the tent flap filled with candy. “Will these help?”
Yes, they do! I’m up, wet but ready to go.
It is beautiful here. The mountains seem to emerge from the wide river. They create an entranceway far down the floodplain. It’s flat, reaching out towards the puffy clouds now on the horizon and clearing skies.
But it doesn’t last because the main channel bumps up against the banks and forces us in the woods. We cross a few channels, not too deep or swift, but cold and, obviously, wet. Orange tape leads the way through the worst trail imaginable blowdowns, erosion, marsh, wading, and schwacking where I gouge my neck on an errant twig.
For a moment we’re back on a gravel bar. So glorious with big strides and easy movement, but then we reach a cliff. Our map app gives two flags denoting the Cliff South End and Cliff North End. It’s steep and messy, but not that bad.
Feeling confident, we push through high above the racing river below. The views are extraordinary and I grab a few photos. Then look for the north end. Oh friends, there is no real north end. There’s simply an end. A cliff edge with a muddy trench leading straight down.
You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s not as if there’s anything to hang onto. In fact we look long and hard for another way down, even backtracking and stepping in the water. But there are no other options. It’s carefully slipping down this disaster and hoping not to fall.
The sun comes out briefly and we attempt to dry gear on the floodplain below. I want to point out that we paid to reserve a “random campsite” on the Howse Floodplain. I called someone at Banff and they took my credit card. And yet, none of this area is a trail with any sort of maintenance. It’s my understanding that not even the GDTA trail crew is allowed in to work on the trail.
We press on, in and out of side channels, trying to avoid the worst of the hiker-eating forest hoping for a small bit of gravel bar to walk on instead. Our map app tells us that a swamp is coming up and to avoid it at all costs.
We move further into the middle of the river. It’s till bumpy and lumpy, but we move fast now hoping the side channel never gets too deep. There’s a suggestion to avoid all of this by crossing the river. I imagine with a horse that might be doable, but the main channel is swift, deep and wide. We don’t dare.
So it’s plodding on and finally reaching the end where the forest trail feels as if it has had a haircut sometime in the last decade. A German woman catches us up, moving very fast but she’s terrified because one channel she chose got her stuck in water over her belly button.
Once she saw us she followed our every move, but now is speeding out of here. I think her itinerary is even more aggressive than ours. At a viewpoint the sun comes out and we snap our picture, shockingly happy and in decent shape. But again, the trail goes on and on through a dense forest of blowdown.
Then just like that, we reach the falls at the Mistaya River where the water races through a deep, tight, and smoothly eroded slot canyon. Dozens of tourists are here and we’re fairly certain we’ll get a ride, which we do seeing our German friend choosing to walk instead. Should we have stopped to pick her up? It’s likely too dangerous here anyway.
It’s only a few miles on a very busy highway to our destination, the absurdly expensive Saskatchewan Crossing. Far from everything, they have a monopoly but hold our packages if we stay with them and have all we need at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Our bodies are really beat up and we’re damp to the core, but we can sleep in real beds and even take a sauna. In the evening, a resident black bear sniffs around bringing out everyone and their cameras.
