We sat and watched the summer sun start to set over Upper Waterton Lake from the Prince of Wales Hotel in Alberta, Canada. The hotel restaurant we were noshing in was bustling with the clings and clangs and chitchat of travelers toasting the day. My housemate and I planned this trip in October 2015, and as we stood at a stalemate on the 4th of July 2016, I wondered how so much time could pass without ever discussing which hikes we would actually take once we got here.
The Carthew-Alderson Trail measures approximately 19 kilometers or 12.2 miles in distance. A one-way shuttle drops you off at Cameron Lake, where you start an extreme uphill battle for more than half of your journey until reaching the Carthew Summit - the top of the mountain, followed by a long descent toward the end of the trail in downtown Waterton. Jaw-dropping views, high winds, a significant decrease in temperature and thin air are just a few expectations when reaching the mountain's summit.
I didn't want to go.
I begged and pleaded not to go. So naturally, we booked the 7:30 crack-o-dawn express shuttle to the start of the trail. All of my fears came rushing to the foreground that evening. But alas, I agreed to try. That's what having anxiety means, right? Facing fears and taking on new challenges.
Besides, what could possibly go wrong?
"It's actually quite easy," the Canadian shuttle driver assured us before asking us to check in at the end of the hike. "Good," I thought, "someone will know if we go missing."
From the moment we started hiking the views were unlike anything I had ever seen. Rushing water from distant waterfalls filled our ears, well that and the constant jingle of our bear bells. Yes, we were in prime grizzly country.
Soon we reached Summit Lake, the first of five alpine lakes we'd visit. From the lake we could see parts of Sperry Glacier in Glacier National Park, Montana. I knew I made the right choice.
That is, until we reached something called an exposed crater shaped scree slope. This was the grand-hurrah of the uphill battle. A series of four-ish switchbacks stared me in the face. Then they started moving. Everything started moving. I sat down on the ever narrowing trail and called out to my friend: "Everything is spinning, I don't think I can do this." After a few minutes of gathering courage, I stood up, blocked the view of the drop-off by holding my right hand next to my face, and started moving forward. One after another, I climbed higher and higher. I didn't feel better. I just kept feeling worse. The final climb was the hardest. A short slope, probably only 30 feet to the summit, and I was completely out of air. Every breath I took in was pained and I could feel my mental state deteriorate more with every step.
I was on top of a mountain, 7,582 feet above sea level, in a foreign country, and I was panicking. "This is it. This is how I go. On a damn hike in Canada." My knees buckled and down I went. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't get the tears out. My friend pulled our lunches out and shoved pieces of turkey in my mouth that I washed down with as much water as I could stomach. When you're panicking, nothing wants to go down.
My lowest moment was at the highest point.
"Look at me. I'm going to get you through this. But you have to eat." Instead of listening, I asked her to leave me behind and send a helicopter. At least my sense of humor was still intact. She lifted my arms, put a sweater and jacket on me, fed me as much of my lunch as possible, and got me through it. And just like that, I pinned my eyes on her backpack, stood up, and started the descent on the opposite side of the mountain. The Carthew Lakes were almost immediately in sight and my mind started to release the stronghold it had over my body.
The rest of the hike was a comparable breeze. All there was left to do now was head to Waffleton to celebrate. I did it and survived to tell the tale. Phew!
