GREAT DIVIDE TRAIL
GDT: SECTION F & G
At 62 miles, Section F is a short, beautiful part of the GDT while Section G at 96 miles with a 20 mile access, feels very remote indeed. It’s called the “Heart of the GDT” and has everything including with high passes, soul-sucking mud, many, many river crossings —17 in one day as well as four quite dangerous ones.
Pro tips for Sections F/G:
- Trench foot — a non-freezing injury from prolonged exposure to cold and wet conditions, that cause numbness, tingling, swelling, pain, and tissue damage — is a real danger on the GDT. Consider waterproof socks and hydrophobic foot balm plus any measures to keep your feet dry and warm at night. .
- Most people hike these two sections in one fell swoop, resupplying at Blueberry Lake with Robson Backcountry Adventures rather than getting off-trail.
- I recommend what we did: flip north from Jasper by train and shuttle up to the Kakwa Eastern Exit, then walk south back to Jasper. It was wonderful!
- If the weather is good, take the Providence Pass Alternate to avoid what I believe is the worst mud on trail.
- Colonel Pass is a much better site than Colonel Creek.
- There’s a decent little horse camp about a mile south of the Miette/Center Pass.
The train goes from Jasper to McBride Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays and takes about 3 hours. They slow down for a view of Mount Robson.
Day Thirty-four, Bastille Creek to cabin, 9 miles
Our day off in Jasper was great. There are tons of restaurants, bars, stores, and tourist activity. Plus the hostel offers a GDT discount. This is a lovely smaller tourist town to Banff, reminding me of Waterton with its library and art. Take time to enjoy it.
From the start of our planning, we opted to flip north from Jasper and walk the final two sections south back to Jasper. It’s a bit complicated to finish the trail, so we wanted to get all that out of the way first and end up in a town with showers and food.
The GDTA offers a plethora of information on finishing, but a reminder that it’s around 20 miles along muddy ATV track from Kakwa Lake to the Walker Creek Forest Service Road, then another 45 miles to Highway 16. It’s possible to hitch from the highway to Prince George or Valemount, but catching a ride on that long forest road is iffy at best.
What we did was take a train up from Jasper to McBride, where the terrific folks at Robson Backcountry Adventure picked us up. They then drove us the three hours to Bastille Creek. We also booked Robson for a resupply at Blueberry Lake about halfway through. Prices are reasonable and we were very happy with their service.
The one problem is that the train takes three hours and the ride is another three hours, so we don’t get to the trailhead until 4:00 in the afternoon. It’s autumn now and this far north, it gets dark even earlier. We can feel the chill in the air and all the vegetation is beginning to turn golden.
The road is not really maintained after 20 miles or so. Sean carries a saw and other tools to cut back the wild overgrowth. He can only drive us to just shy of Bastille Creek, but it feels too early to camp here.
The map shows a cabin ahead about nine miles. It’s owned by the snowmobiling club and they offer it to anyone in need. Perhaps we can find dry ground there to camp or even pop inside if it’s raining.
Which feels likely, as it pours the entire drive. Sean keeps up the conversation the whole way with me since I sit in front. Learning I’m from Minnesota, he decides to make a Canada/Minnesota connection by playing Gordon Lightfoot’s song “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” It’s a good, but all that tragedy just heightens my anxiety over the rain. I can’t help but wonder what we’re getting ourselves into.
And just like that, he stops the truck and says, “This is it!” All toasty warm and dry inside and now we have to get out then find our way back to Jasper, 150 or so miles south of here.
Heck, it’s only drizzling as we throw on heavy packs laden with six days of food then fire off a message on the Garmin that we’re starting our trip. At first, it’s a people mover lined with ripe thimbleberries. We keep on the rain gear, but it clears revealing a chalky blue McGregor River and big mountains.
I’m following the yellow line on the FarOut app carefully, so blow right past a right turn. We should have taken that it seems as we begin walking through deep puddles right against the eroded banks of the river. Further along, the road disappears completely and it’s a rushing torrent in between us and the cabin.
It’s a long backtrack, so we opt for a kind of side channel, not fast or dangerous, just deep, up to the crotch and icy. Things don’t improve at all but at least we don’t cross the river again.
Instead, it’s a puddly ATV track. Not sweet little splashy puddles, rather treacherous voids of unknown depth lined with slick mud. It’s nearly impossible to avoid stepping in them, but even skirting their messiness means risking a greasy fall.
Which I eventually do, sliding right into a puddle on my back, mud oozing down my neck. “Help!” I scream because I can’t get out. The girls hoist me up miraculously keeping themselves from falling in.
And we’re going to set up our tents in this?
It’s not far to the cabin, a two story wooden structure. The front door is reached via a metal staircase that is latched up, presumably to keep animals out. It can be lowered by a pulley as if a drawbridge, We had meant to just use their lawn for our tents, but their sign offers the cabin to anyone in need and I am wet and muddy head-to-toe. I am most certainly in need.
It’s very much a man cave inside with a huge sectional sofa and bar. We do our best to keep out as much damp and dirt as possible, but soon find good places to sleep right in the living room.
Thank you snowmobilers club! We hope we didn’t leave any trace. Your generosity really helped out this middle-aged hiker and we are most grateful.
Day Thirty-five, cabin to Kakwa Lake, 11 miles
Hanging out in this cabin reminds me of the Te Araroa. I slept inside a hut over 30 nights in New Zealand. The weather was often horrible and the sandflies relentless, so there was nothing like holing up inside with the possibility of a fire or at least a dry place to sleep.
We barely move before noon, doing absolutely nothing but resting, eating, and napping. Kelly and I share the huge L-shaped sofa while Katlyn parks herself in a La-Z-Boy. It’s the best sleep I have on the entire trail.
But we need to move on to stay on schedule and not deplete all our food supplies. Kakwa Lake is 11 miles on with one small climb. It’s determined we can comfortably leave at 2:00.
We ensure the place is clean and nothing is left behind, then hoist the staircase back up into place and push on through the woods. There’s still awful mud with only thin strips of grass like balance beams to walk across. But it only lasts a mile before we reach Buchanan Creek.
It’s brilliant someone has strung a wire across the expanse with a pulley to hang onto, but only Kate can use it as she heads through first. There’s no way to send it back. The current is not strong, but the water is deep and Kelly spots me, blocking from above as we carefully ford together.
The good news is the ATV’s can’t get past here, so the road isn’t chewed up. We move faster now up McGregor Pass. Thunder rumbles over distant peaks, monstrous and glacier strewn, but the sun comes out and we arrive at the lake with clear skies.
Paul and Kim are the volunteer wardens at Kakwa Lake, staying in a cozy cabin for half the summer. They usher us to the public cabin, then return to light a fire and bring us hot tea and some leftover hiker food. It’s absolutely wondrous here as sun lights up the mountains reflected in the water. There’s a dock, a canoe — I could stay here half the summer myself.
They tell us there were two men here yesterday that chartered a float plane to carry them out. A woman who arrived at the same time developed trench foot from all the damp and was thrilled to join them, avoid the 20 more miles of mud and get to a doctor.
There’s really no way to know who might show up tonight. Maybe Louis! The cabin is tiny with two large wooden sleeping platforms and two smaller above on chains. All our wet clothes hang near the fire and we make a giant double meal of mac and cheese leftover from past hikers.
I could really get used to this.
Day Thirty-six, Kakwa to Copper Kettle, 19 miles
So here’s a question: Is it better to wake up in gorgeous weather at a gorgeous place, the fog lifting to reveal graceful mountains, deep green forests and a sky so blue it goes on forever?
Or would you prefer more rain and dreariness so all you can do is move on?
We can hardly tear ourselves away from this place. We love it so much and the day is extraordinary. Kate takes her coffee on the dock and I just breathe it in, snapping photos and dreaming of becoming a Canadian and offering my services at this cabin for the summer.
Paul and Kim tell us that last year there was only one day of rain, whereas this summer, it’s every day. Yes, we know. You have to soak up the sun when you can.
We come to a spur for the Providence Pass Alternate which might have turned out to be a better choice. It’s hard to decide whether to go high when the weather has been so variable. And we’re also tired and counting down the final eight nights out. So we opt to stay low and head directly into the worst mud of the trail.
It’s deep, greasy, and perilous on steep ground. It makes Section B feel like a cakewalk. I sink above my knees and curse the ground as my foot gets trapped in the mire. There’s absolutely no purchase on this slipsiding mess.
We’re meant to walk over three passes today, two smaller where I curse most of the way. I have to pause to point out that this summer 2025 was the wettest in living memory. We’re lucky not to have smoke even one day in all our 44 days of walking, but the wet is nearly unmanageable — especially here in the forest as we ascend on deep, soul sucking ooze.
Beyond Providence Pass, we get a short reprieve. It’s beautiful here in a high meadow glowing yellow under the warming sun and dotted with hot pink fireweed. You feel like you are wearing the theatre masks of comedy and tragedy, switching quickly from joy to absolute despair.
Despair would be a perfect descriptor when we reenter the forest to head steeply down to Cecilia Creek. The GDTA recently built a sturdy new bridge here and boasts of its stalwart handsomeness. But to get there is a nightmare of slimy mud.
It is a nice bridge, and yeah, this rocky bit of rapids would likely be a tricky ford. I do wonder why this creek gets bridged when we’ll have many ahead that will be downright dangerous to cross.
It’s right back up in mud, long, sliding footprints showing where the slipperiest bits are. But the worst of it seems to be behind us now as we approach the highest pass of the day 1,300 feet up through boggy meadows and into the rocky alpine zone.
At least we move steadily now, just through a marsh rather than mud. This is why you come to the mountains, to get up above the braided swampland and among the wildflowers and towering cliffs.
Finally my feet are on lovely shale, pinging as I place my foot. The views are glorious but the sky fills with black clouds and our luck is running out. But it’s easy walking now, steeply down on this hard packed rock and dirt. It begins to rain so we put on our coats and pants. Just as we reach the steepest part of trail, we see two young men marching up.
“Why hello! It’s good to see you again!” says Louis. Well, how about that. Still charming even on a steep incline in the rain. He’s not all bad, he just did something bad. Perhaps if he’d offered to compensate us for the permit…
We laugh once they pass because the other young man with him is an American and also a handsome, young charmer. We met him at Boulton Creek and he expounded on not believing in permits, preferring the freedom of wild camping. Well, I guess they deserve each other.
The walk is all flat now and the map tells us it’s just a mile to our intended camp. But 45 minutes later, we’re still not there. And we are walking fast in this rain. These distances make no sense. Just before we reach the camp, we see a tent tucked in the trees. It’s Caitlin from section A! She had a very aggressive itinerary and appears to be on track to finish.
She perks up, telling us it’s supposed all cruisey to Kakwa…right?
We barely have the heart to tell her the last days will be a mud fest, then scurry on to set our own tents in a horse camp that’s chock full of horse poop, just as the rain socks in.
Day Thirty-seven, Copper Kettle to Morkill Pass, 16 miles
The rain is intense all night long, beating us sideways. Somehow I find a bit of shelter in trees and miss the brunt of it, but the girls are drenched, damp, cold and shivering.
We make breakfast amidst the horse poop and the sun comes out for a spell, just long enough to get us up the long slog of Casket Mountain Shoulder. All that dampness looks sort of sweet from up here, a ribbon of stream.
We never really dry from the night and get soaked anyway crossing yet another stream. The plants grow way over my head and brush me like a car wash. It’s decent trail, mostly wet and cross country now as the mist returns and the sky turns a dull color of gray.
At Casket Creek we meet a helmeted trail crew, happy to be outside with their big loppers and weed whackers, clearing away the opportunistic shrubs. We take a break at their campsite as it starts raining again and I just weep, cold and miserable. “I don’t want to die out here of hypothermia!”
So we get up and get moving to stay warm. We have three big humps today and that should do the trick. That seems to calm the rain for at least a moment and we charge up through stunted spruce.
It was so fun to see Caitlin yesterday and maybe not quite as fun to see Louis, but we realize going backwards means we’ll likely run into all our friends. We start playing a game of who we’ll run into next. First it’s Dan from Section One barreling down, trying to beat the worst of the weather in exposed high places. He tells us his partner Alice had had enough of the rain and went home.
Before he goes, he warns us the worst mud on trail is yet to come, but we’re just as certain the mud we encountered yesterday is the worst. We promise to compare notes and then he’s gone.
Way back in Waterton, we met a woman named Darian who’s supporting her boyfriend as he walks the trail. We were able to meet up with her in Jasper and wonder if maybe her boyfriend Sean is about this far by now.
And by golly, just as we begin the final push to Fetherstonaugh Crest, there he is. We tell him Darian is a keeper after driving all over and delivering food, getting his clothes washed and assuring he’s got all he needs, sometimes by hiking in for miles to meet him.
But we don’t linger because just as we crest the top, it begins to snow. It’s not sticking and just makes an interesting backdrop, though feels wet as we descend to a meadow before anther climb.
It’s next to a stream perfect for a break and lo and behold, the sun comes out. That means our gear comes out too in hopes that this sun will dry the damage wrought by last night’s deluge.
It’s a few minutes before clouds come in, like billowing smoke, an evil gas filling the sky then dropping ice pellet bombs right on us. “Pack up! Pack up!”
There’s nothing to do now but keep moving ahead, up and over towards the highest point of the day, Mount Morkill. Of course those cruel clouds are not satisfied with a wee bit of snow and ice, now they send hail. Pea sized but loud enough to make a sound as they bang on our gear.
But even in wild weather, views appear that astonish. It’s a long sidle over broken tiles of shale. Trees huddle like islands in this light gray landscape sparkling as the sun comes out again causing steam to rise and reveal indigo mountains covered in snow.
It’s easy walking now through a beautiful meadow into Willmore Wilderness Park, marked by a Moose antler. The campground is lovely and flat. There’s even a sitting area for eating and water close by. The sun comes out briefly and we finally get a chance to dry our gear.
Maybe this is a sign of things to come? Still rain patters on my tent as I go to sleep. We had every form of precipitation today and I’m still here. I think we’ll be just fine.
Endangered Southern Mountain Woodland Caribou check us out on our climb up Big Shale Hill.
Day Thirty-eight, Morkill Pass to Jack Pine, 16 miles
I guess hope is a good thing if it helps you sleep and dream of better times. But the rain pings on my tent all night and I (again) feel like I just can’t go on.
But we’re up and ready for an even bigger climb today, 2,000 feet above this camp over Big Shale Hill. Dan said it was his favorite. Even though socked in with rain, he had views.
Our trail is steep in meadow, a bog most of the way, no way to keep your feet dry. It’s chilly in the damp, but the rain hasn’t hit yet and the wispy clouds move in and out of a state of threat.
We take such a long lingering breakfast, it’s pretty late when we enter a log meadow under gray peaks. Kelly has yet to see a moose and Katlyn wonders aloud if maybe this is their habitat. I reply that it’s too late in the morning, to which she says, “Oh no it’s not! Look!”
Out on the wet grass, two large animals cavort, looking over at us curiously. Wait a minute, those aren’t moose, they’re caribou! An adult and juvenile Southern Mountain Woodland Caribou, the ones so endangered the parks have allowed the trails to become decommissioned.
We look at them and they look at us, big reindeer-like snouts and gorgeous racks that even from here look velvety and soft. Something eventually spooks them and they jog off, their legs akimbo and splashing through the same swampy marsh we’re splashing through.
What a wonder! And as if to put an exclamation on things, a giant porcupine waddles by right in our path, looking prehistoric like a stegosaurus maybe. It’s dark outside and we might get another wet day, but it’s starting out pretty nice.
Up and up we go, resting at a beautiful little pond. We leave the meadows for rocky tundra, a mountain in the distance holds a huge waterfall in a green notch. We reach a bench, then sidle around the mountain looking straight up to a wide hump.
That’s a hill? Well a big hill.
Some of the snow from yesterday still lingers here, but not deep enough to be a problem. My feet are already soaked anyway. And just as we crest, I realize we’ll be walking on a huge ridge. The clouds are black and low, seemingly close enough to touch. An endless row of mountains rise in waves beyond and a white snake of crustiness clings to the sharp edge.
It’s astounding but windy, so we walk slowly to take it in before finding an exit on the far end to linger out of the breeze. This might very well be my favorite pass on the GDT. Icy cold and dark, but incredible and we’re the only ones here.
We reach the end and look down into a deep valley of meadows and a winding stream held close by forest. There must be more caribou and porcupines, grizzly and wolves down there.
There’s a seasonal seep coming down from the top, so we filter water and spend at least an hour here, drying gear and eating — and throwing a few snowballs. It’s glorious, but a long way down then back up and over Little Shale Hill before we get to the Jack Pine River where we’ll camp.
Mud, stream crossings, blowdown, the works greet us at the bottom, but when we rise back up on easy trail, we get a view of the rocky pimple that’s the Big Hill. And we pass two more hikers coming north, both women on their own whom we have yet to meet. One named Jen screams when she hears us crashing towards her, a little freaked that we might be the actual Three Bears.
It’s still a long way down across a stream and then into a burned area with loads of deadfall. At the Old Trappers Cabin, just busted up wood now, we meet Keiko with all her gear hanging on a clothes line.
It’s really getting cold now, but there’s not enough room here for all of us so off we go to the wee site by the Jack Pine River on a muddy but thankfully short walk.
Kate finds a very tight spot for the three of us under spreading spruce. And I’m so glad she does because the sky clears now and stars come out as the temperature drops to freezing.
Day Thirty-nine, Jack Pine to Blueberry Lake, 16 miles
It is by far the coldest night on trail. There’s frost on everything, even our bear bags are white with ice. Katlyn left her shoes outside and the shoelaces are stiff with cold. She dips them in the stream to warm them enough to untie.
Her idea to set under the spruce is brilliant. We have very little condensation o the tents and likely stay warmer than if we’d camped directly next to the river in the open.
But something new is happening. It’s so cold because the sky is crystal clear and free of clouds. It’s one of the first fully sunny days we get since Section C.
And this is vitally critical. We heard from Jen yesterday that several people quit before reaching the Jack Pine River because of the snow. As tough as it was for us crossings passes, this section requires multiple fords of the river. They’re not difficult in and of themselves since the water is not deep or fast, but imagine stepping in an out in freezing temperatures.
We, on the other hand, are incredibly lucky. If the weather holds it will only get warmer. Not so warm now. My feet feel like blocks of ice in the first small pool I need to cross. Fortunately heading south, we stay on one side for about four miles before we’ll be forced to ford, so hopefully our feet will dunk in once the sun has heated things up.
I want to point out here that in past years, not only have hikers had to contend with smoke from wildfires, but also enervating heat. We feel it a little sometimes, but mostly it’s the cold that’s challenging us.
In no time, I’m removing layers and the first cold plunge is more a refresher, water above the thighs but not fast. This valley is is so lovely, snow stuffed into crannies of surrounding mountains, the river itself, clear, deep and green.
At one pool where the water is especially deep, we see an animal swimming along. It looks like a platypus! Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a beaver! Right there, close enough to touch.
About halfway through, we find a gravel bar and take lunch, all our gear warming on the rocks. There’s only one messy bit in a gorge, running fast and forcing us to walk in mud. But you know, that mud washes right off when we plunge back in. In twelve miles, we cross the river 17 times.
We are so lucky to have gotten this beauty in sunshine.
At the fork, we’ll leave the river and begin our climb to Blueberry Lake. I have so many pebbles in my shoes and socks. But I don’t care. Oh, how I love the Jack Pine River. The weather gods finally came through.
We chug like steam engines on the climb through a mossy forest that finally opens to a view straight down the valley. It’s very steep on loose shale to a bench where we see an enormous glacier on the mountains.
I was so close to quitting nearly every day. What a wonder that I kept moving ahead at all, but am I ever glad I did. Section G is turning out to be one of my favorites.
It’s just two miles to the lake high above the boggy marshland and just as we round the bend, there are two more friends in the trail, Matt and Pica. They are fast hikers and have already fit in walking down to Mount Robson and back. But they boost our confidence about what lies ahead, one tough river crossing after another all doable according to them.
Many weekenders take over the sites near the lake, but we had Robson Backcountry leave our resupply at the horse camp just below so set right there. It’s a massive bear hang holding our remaining six days of food plus three boxes of trinkets we dispatch almost immediately.
What a glorious day — and the forecast promises another week like this. How about that?!
Day Forty, Blueberry Lake to Chown Creek, 15 miles
We’re full and happy when we go to sleep last night. Now we hump six days of food to finish out this thru-hike. And just as promised, the weather is stupendous. Clear, blue skies, not a single cloud. And the air has that sparkly feeling where you know it’s not temporary but for keeps, at least until we finish.
It’s a big climb on good trail above Blueberry Lake, that is until any semblance of trail disappears requiring constant vigilance and route finding. But we could care less, it’s glorious out. A day that answers the question why you’d want to be a backpacker.
Everything is beautiful and full of interest, even the rock at my feet in unusual patterns and the spiky peaks coming into view far ahead. We break at a wee tarn, wanting to simply spend the entire day enjoying the sunshine.
We’re climbing and do need to watch our footing on tallus, but it’s easy walking on the top of the world. Soon we need to descend, way down to alpine meadows still filled with flowers this late in the year.
As we zigzag down, we see two hikers coming up. Who could it be? Friends? Indeed it is, Megan and Dan from Coleman. They are ecstatic to be here with only a few miles to their resupply and a rest day at Blueberry Lake. They assure us the rivers are passable, and they even crossed them in rain.
We wish them luck then head on, entering forest where we meet more friends, a mother and her daughters we met at Boulton Creek. They’re feeling great and so happy the weather is better. We laugh about the awfulness of the rain and they also assure us the river crossings will be just fine.
But just as we start walking away from each other, and almost an afterthought, the younger daughter stops and says, “Well, you will have willows ahead. Don’t expect to go fast.”
hmmmm…
The trail out of the forest is steep but easy, shooting us up to Bess Shoulder. The views are astounding and just over the rise, we get our first view of Chown Creek, a massive braided river 600 feet below in over three miles.
It looks tame and easy from here, but I know that’s not what’s ahead. Maybe it’s not as bad as she said.
No, it isn’t. It’s WORSE! To be honest, this is not close to the mud luge south of Kakwa Cabin, but mud and willows make for interesting walking. In here we find a couple of water bottles, even bear spray all presumably ripped off some unlucky hiker’s pack as they bashed through.
The mud continues, slowing us way down but we finally arrive at Chown Creek and begin walking up the floodplain. We’re tired and it’s getting dark. Heading south, things are a bit confusing. Believing we need to be on the opposite bank to reach the campsite, we cross icy channels, the cold like knives on the soles of my feet.
But then we’re stopped by a cliff.
When Kate moves to cross right back, I beg her to stop. It’s 8:15 and we should probably just camp here on this flat bit. We can get a fresh start when we can see better and besides, it’s gorgeous here.
The sky is still clear when we set and we wish on the first star for good weather, strong bodies and safe crossings.
And maybe no more willow bashing, k?
Day Forty-one, Chown Creek to Calumet , 18 miles
Since we didn’t quite make it to the campsite on Chown Creek, we get a very early start. We’re up and packing at dawn. There are four tough crossings today, including the gnarly Smoky River at the end of the day when it could be at its fullest after the sun heats up the glaciers.
We’ll need all those hours, but that means the first plunge into Chown Creek will be sharp daggers of pain.
And it is. Awful but short-lived.
We walk down the correct bank now then look for the mini channel. It’s fairly obvious just past the horse camp and not nearly as terrifying as I’d anticipated. The rocks are slippery and I can’t see the bottom, but I’m across and into forest for a long five-mile walk.
It’s pretty flat and repetitive, but it smells good in here. My clothes come off as it heats up and I go into marching mode, just moving along to get to the next cross. I don’t want to stop until we get it behind us.
We’re told Carcajou Creek doesn’t look scary, but it’s swift and slippery. Kate heads in carefully, watching each step and using her stick. Then we follow. I wobble a little and Kelly reaches out for my pack, holding me solid.We did it!
The forest is too thick to take a pause, but soon we come to an opening leading to a gravel bar right on the wide braided Smoky River. We follow its loud siren song all day long but won’t cross it for another eight miles.
Still, we’re halfway through the fords and we need a break, so we take it heating up in the sunshine and breaking into conversation and laughs. I am going to miss these amazing ladies.
All our friends said the rivers were not a problem, but I find the Gendarme a challenge. The first braid is easy, but the second doesn’t seem to offer anywhere to cross without large rocks. Once we head up to the horse crossing, the water is just at our knees, but I still have a tough time controlling my sticks in the torrent. I move slowly and make sure each step is secure.
And why, might you ask, are all these crossings here? Because there are no bridges. There were bridges at one time, but they’ve been washed away and the decision was made to leave this place wild. So if you want to walk Section G on the GDT, you have to cross at your own risk.
Kelly spots me by taking the brunt of the current on the Smoky River.
It’s a climb up a hot, rocky and somewhat sketchy ridge. Lovely, but seems pointless when walking on the gravel bar is so doable. Here the Smoky is channelled, narrow and fast and not passable at all.
We’ll meet the crossing soon enough, but first we get to experience what a bridge looks like on its way to not being a bridge.
Mumm Creek is likely totally unfordable. Perhaps there’s a spot somewhere below or above, deep in the woods. It is high, silty and fast. The bridge remains but is twisted and lacks any handrails. Kelly grabs my pack and lets me cross without weight. I am so grateful.
And then, we’re here. One trail leads to Mount Robson, the other to the Smoky. All that crossing hasn’t necessarily made me braver. I actually feel more anxious that this time I’ll get swept away.
The notes tell us that there only two options for crossing, both marked with flagging. They also warn us to only attempt a crossing early in the morning when glacial melt is low — or be prepared for a fast and potentially dangerous creek crossing.
mmmkay.
Dan told us that the deepest part will be where we start at the flagging just north of the trail fork. This is actually to our advantage because we will be near the bank and gaining our footing before we commit. The river is gray with silt and moving very fast indeed. Mount Robson peaks out from its origin as if to guide us on the cross.
Kate goes first, slow and deliberate. And indeed she struggles with the start where it’s deepest, but as it gets shallower she moves more fluidly and calls us across.
The hardest part for me is to not lose my balance watching the current. The speed itself makes me a little dizzy and disoriented. I need to focus on the stillness of my body and the strength of each step and stab of my stick. Kelly spots me by standing next to me and taking the brunt of the current. And across we go.
If it truly was uncrossable, we would have camped here and tried in the morning. But we did it! Now we can head up one last climb to another beautiful valley looking right at colossal Coleman Glacier. Yes, there’s a bit more mud and boggy walking as we route-find up another river valley, but we don’t care anymore. We made it across all the dangerous rivers and this is site is one of the prettiest yet.
Day Forty-two, Calumet to Colonel Creek, 17 miles
Everything feels a whole lot easier now.
The worst of the weather seems to be behind us and we’ve checked off the hardest river crossings and passes. That of course does not mean we’re finished.
Right out of the gate we have to climb Moose Pass, but it’s downright gorgeous in the morning light. A few weeks ago this would have been covered in wild flowers, but now the flowers are turning orange or exploding into Dr. Seussian swirly hairdos.
It’s hard to believe this is the same trail. The sky is devoid of any clouds, a wash of azure. We take a pause at Slide Campsite then move on towards the Moose River which will need to be crossed multiple times today. But we’re pros and on a day like this, it’s a welcome cooling off technique.
I do feel bad, I think we all do, that I never take a swim on this backpack trip. We had so much cold, damp weather, I didn’t dare dunk in all the way. And now that it’s warm, we need to keep up the pace to stay on schedule. It does seem sad with an abundance of emerald lakes nestled in rocky cirques.
But I’ll be wet soon enough as we arrive on the banks of the aquamarine Moose River. Tiny orange ribbons guide us, but we often miss them and just need to guess where to go. But trust me, this is nothing like the maze of Section D.
We cross a half dozen times, mostly staying on the route then leave the river to follow a feeder creek called Upright. This must have been a tough cross but it’s now jammed with logs. The GDTA has tied few together, adding a rope to make balancing easier.
By the time we arrive in the wee site at Calumet Creek, the peaks are turning orange in the waning light. A German hiker who calls himself Joe Dirt is camping here and seems to bark at us as we arrive. I think he’s just not used to seeing people and turns out to be really friendly. I end up calling him Johann Dirt which he happily answers to.
There may not be enough time to swim, but I wash up in the little creek and sleep like the dead.
Day Forty-three, Colonel Creek to Miette River, 15 miles
We were warned that the climb to Colonel Pass would be awful. It seems the GDTA had only recently cleared it and then there was fire causing a pick-up-sticks jungle of deadfall.
We leave ourselves plenty of time to get up and over Grant and Miette/Center Pass but first have to contend with this awfulness. At first, it’s just a few blowdowns, but soon they’re on top of each other and the blowdown workaround has been loaded with its own set of blowdowns.
The one saving grace is this climb is packed with huckleberries, fat, black and heavenly. We barely take two steps before bending down and harvesting these wonders into our eager hands and equally eager mouths.
The trouble with heading south is the sun is in your eyes and it’s hard to see where you’re headed, like when misjudge and almost poke out my eye on an errant limb. I don’t carry a saw, but now would be a good time to have one, justifying the weight.
It’s under/over complexity through here and when I look down at my GPS is reads that I have not moved at all in the past hour. That is not helping.
Things eventually relent after four very tedious miles. And what a gift we receive. Above is magical with tarns out of a fairy tale, dappled light through moss-covered forests and finally a stunning campsite right on a lake.
Of course we park our little old selves here to eat and luxuriate in a late summer’s day in Eden. We didn’t have the energy or time to get here to camp last night, but maybe you do.
We can barely peel ourselves away but more beauty awaits up Grant Pass. There’s barely any climbing at all into this alpine exquisiteness, the shapely hulk of Mount Machray with her glacier seemingly painted on. Everything is going tawny now, dressed in fall ambers and chestnut.
The climb continues on rock, then into a bucolic alpine meadow right next to a babbling brook. I know, I know, it sounds cliche, doesn’t it.? But if you have been following this thru-hike, you know I’ve been suffering from the rain and cold and suddenly, at the very end, especially on this penultimate day, it’s all sunshine and transformative beauty. Allow me little cliche leeway!
And the air is so sweet and fresh. We take a long break to dry our not very wet gear. All around are bright pink Lewiston Monkey Flowers, late bloomers in the mountains and usually crowded near steams.
Our walk now toward Miette Pass is along these high meadows. We never really lose much altitude and simply soar across, studying carefully where we might avoid the boggy bits in this high steppe. Monster clouds seem to be building into a thunderhead over a distant peak, but soon we’ll be heading down and ending this hike.
We reach a cairn that marks the Alberta/British Columbia border then meet a cutoff to a lake, which we could choose to camp at. But it will make tomorrow a very long day and the rest of the trail is expected to be rough…again.
Instead we head on looking for a wee horse camp. There’s not much here, including horse poop, which delights us. But it’s flat, near water, and looks out to the peaks. And it’s also all our own on our final night.
We set, eat, reminisce, finally letting go a little as the tension lessens because we’re going home.
Day Forty-four, Miette River to Jasper, 15 miles
It’s not just an easy blowoff walk out of here. Fifteen miles on the Great Divide Trail is a full day’s walk and we’re told it will be muddy, brushy, boggy, essentially everything we’ve walked already on the GDT.
What I can say is that it lives up to its reputation and each one of us, in our way and in our own time, wipes out in the mud. No one gets hurt which in and of itself is a small miracle.
We come across bog boards beautifully placed, but then later bog boards that are ripped up and thrown into a pile right next to deep mud. Was this intentional, I wonder, or will there be improvements planned? All this trail really needs is a little love and attention — and an injection of cash.
The Miette River site is pretty run down and a slog up from the water. I’m glad we stayed at the horse camp, or better yet, the lake. On this trip I’ve foraged blueberries, huckleberries, a couple of really ripe strawberries and now I come upon a wall of raspberries. My mood immediately lifts.
Not for long. I’m ready for this to end. So I finally to turn on music and jam to it, soon outpacing the girls as I boogie down the final slog. I should have thought of this sooner, but I have no ear buds, so I’m annoying everyone and anyone in site — like the guy around the bend picking huckleberries.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I hate it when people do that.”
He’s really cool and just goes back to his picking. But when he catches up to me ten minutes later, I’ve turned it back on and have to apologize again.
Mark is his name and he walked the trail two years ago. He lives in Jasper and also flipped north to walk back to Jasper, literally walking home. I ask if he might offer us a ride to town at the highway junction. He says yes, but then asks if I’ll return to walk the highway to complete the trail.
“Hell, no!”
OK, maybe that was a bit harsh. Truth is this has been a wonderful thru-hike even if it was brutal, swear-word inducing, frustrating and exhausting. I don’t need to walk 13 miles on dangerous highway to feel satisfied that I thru-hiked the GDT.
It’s enough and right now, it’s time to get some pizza.