Two years ago I spent my first significant time alone in the backcountry. I camped at Garibaldi Lake and spent five days hiking and exploring the area. I instantly fell in love with the place, learned plenty about backcountry camping and about myself too.

Although I hear more about Black Tusk when I mention Garibaldi Lake to others, the highlight of my mid-September trip was the view from Panorama Ridge — the other nearby hike.

Standing atop the ridge back in 2006, I snapped one of my favourite self portraits. It shows me grinning into the camera while my jacket hood is billowed by the wind. I am surrounded by mountains and glaciers all around, and below the shadows of clouds cover the beautiful turquoise blue lake. With the photo taken, I beat a hasty retreat down to escape the cold.

But not before vowing to come back one day.

Fast forward to the Thanksgiving long weekend.

After breaking trail in about eight inches of snow from Black Tusk Lake, following the footprints left by a wolf, I returned to Panorama Ridge.

There was a healthy layer of powdery snow, but no wind, allowing for a cool break up top.

Much had changed. I was older, wiser perhaps, and came better prepared. But I still had my camera, and had to take the obligatory mugshot.

Me on Panorama Ridge September 2006.

Me back on Panorama in October 2008.

I just spent a solid whack of time in the mountains, six full days out of the last eight hiking in Garibaldi Provincial Park. And I couldn’t be happier still feeling the burn in my legs.

It started last Sunday with a 30-plus kilometre day trip into the Diamond Head area. It was a splendid day hiking with Kelly and her cousin, and we enjoyed sunny breaks on the hike up, dramatic low clouds rolling in while at the top, a 30-minute hailstorm during lunch, and light rain on the way down.

After a day’s break, I headed back to Elfin Lakes for two nights, fitting in a 20 kilometre day trip that took me to the top of Opal Cone then Columnar Peak. I sat and experienced glacial melt, and hung out with a marmot while surrounded by a horizon full of mountains.

I returned home Thursday evening, and took Friday to rest, plan and repack.

Saturday morning, I met up with Kelly and we headed into another section of Garibaldi for a two day excursion. We hauled our gear up to Taylor Meadows to set up camp, then shouldered our day bags for the assault on Black Tusk. We reached the base of the “Jawa Sandcrawler” by mid afternoon.

But that wasn’t the end of the day.

Still feeling energized, we descended down to Garibaldi Lake where school groups abounded, then returned to camp up at the meadows, hungry, sunned, and tired. We had scotch with dinner. Then some Fireball and hot water while stargazing.

Sunday we lounged at the lake before hiking out under the afternoon sun. But again, we were not done. We met up with some of Kelly’s friends at the Smoke Bluffs and capped off the day with a finger-crack climb. It was my first time climbing outside, and an amazing way to finish a week outdoors.

Kelly wonders if the hurtin' will be worth it. It was.

I am a hurt bag right now. But it was worth it.

It started Tuesday when I added more kilometres to my hiking boots with a trek up to Elfin Lakes with my overnight gear. I’d already been up during the Labour Day long weekend for a 30+ kilometre day hike to The Gargoyles, but now I was planning to stay a couple nights and fit in a day exploring a couple of the nearby peaks.

I hiked up in a light drizzle that convinced me to spend the night in the shelter instead of my tent. And despite the sounds of a critter shredding up a roll of toilet paper overnight, I slept pretty well in one of the just-too-short cots.

Morning arrived, with plenty of blue skies above. I got my gear together, ate breakfast and hit the trail early, following the path east towards Opal Cone.

Along the way I passed Ring Creek and got great sweeping views of Mount Garibaldi and The Gargoyles under the yellow morning light. It was simply breathtaking.

By 11 a.m. I’d scrambled my way up to Opal Cone. On the top I paused to watch the slow melt of Garibaldi Glacier, and even heard two distinct and distant cracks followed by echoing rumbling.

After a moment meditating, I got up and descended back to the shelter, practically stumbling the final kilometre. But some food and water, and an hour’s nap later, I was up again. The sun was shining and the afternoon still young.

I hiked up The Saddle then veered west along a worn and decaying trail towards Columnar Peak.

When the trail ended, I was standing on a stack of rocks the size of a small desk. From the top I could see Elfin Lakes as tiny reflective droplets standing out of the green. Mountain ranges surrounded me on the horizons. And toward the west, I could also see Squamish, the Stawamus Chief and Howe Sound.

For half an hour I shared the summit with a curious marmot. I shot the customary self portrait, then a panorama. Then it was back down towards the shelter where I enjoyed dinner and fond memories of the day.

With two weeks to go before the end of my epic six-month break, I’m taking off for some classic early September backpacking in the Coast Mountains.

On Sunday I trekked up to The Gargoyles with a couple friends on a brilliant 30-plus kilometre day hike in Garibaldi Provincial Park. We encountered sunshine and overcast skies, wind and fog, hail and rain. Wildlife encounters included whiskeyjacks, a marmot, deer and baby black bear (no mama bear sighting thankfully).

Now I’m headed back there with my overnight gear to poke around the trails, scramble up a few peaks, and meditate before the coming storm that work will be.

The sign had two arrows pointing in different directions. Both in black marker, one pointed right and had the words Lynn Peak Viewpoint next to it, the other straight ahead with the words Actual Lynn Summit or something near that.

It’d be another 20 minutes hiking from viewpoint to summit.

From the viewpoint I could look down the Seymour Valley towards North Vancouver, the Second Narrows Bridge, Vancouver and all the way to Tsawwassen. So I figured the view from the top should be even better, maybe even with a view of Lynn Valley and Grouse Mountain to the west.

Twenty minutes later I hiked to the top of a little hump surrounded by tall trees. There was only one big flat rock and tree. There was pink marker tape around the tree and a strip of orange tape on the rock with one discouraging message: “ACTUAL LYNN PEAK (or close enough…)”

What wasn’t there? A view. So I had lunch down by the viewpoint instead.

As Deet the gas bar attendant rang in the handful of items I placed on his counter, I cringed looking at my selection. There were two pepperoni and cheese stick combos (each about a foot long), a prepackaged ham and cheese sandwich, a litre of Gatorade and a tall can of carbonated citrus-flavoured energy drink.

This would not be a dinner to remember, and definitely not one for the New Year’s Eve memory banks. But just a few minutes earlier and a short distance down the street I made the surprising discovery that the drive-thru Tim Hortons was closed. Despite slinging coffee at a Timmy’s a few years back, I still experienced a brief moment of frustration seeing the red neon CLOSED sign as I drove past. Did they suddenly become a branch of the federal government?

So the closest stop then was the gas station, where Deet asked me if I wanted a bag to carry out my vein-clogging swag.

Yeah, you bet I did.

I pulled out of gas station, drove a short distance, then parked in an empty lot next to the ice rink. There I tore through a pepperoni and cheese stick and sucked back the energy drink while listening to rock ‘n roll music on the radio.

December 31 was so far turning out to be a less than stellar night, but the clear sky overhead and crisp air down below only meant greater things higher up. And I couldn’t wait.

Two hours later I was sitting in a pit dug and stomped out of the snow, by a small fire, admiring the view of city lights below and the snow covered wilderness stretching north towards Whistler and Pemberton. As I ate my sandwich, my hiking partners pulled out a bottle of red wine and another of sparkling wine, and a small bottle of whiskey.

Friends who know me well will think less of me, but I didn’t partake, and I actually rang in the New Year with just one beer. It was an import too.

But while I sipped the slushy Heineken and swallowed the last my of sandwich, I really couldn’t complain. While revellers partied below in the city, I was one of a few experiencing something different, but with the luxuries that any house party, restaurant and bar could offer. I just had a view they could never compete with.

I also secretly hoped the night would set the tone for 2008, with plenty of new activities and experiences. So far, six days in, I’m doing pretty good.

We sat leaning forward, gloved hands holding on to jacket hoods to shield our eyes as another blast of wind drove needles of snow into our faces. Moments earlier we had reached Brockton Point on a night snowshoe up fresh powder on Seymour Mountain. But now sitting on our backpacks munching on crackers dipped in spicy pepper cheese that looked a bit like lumpy Cheez Whiz, there was talk of pulling the proverbial parachute cord and bailing.

A night out is one thing, but sitting on a bump of snow without cover against the wind and icy flakes was just damn cold. Crackers eaten and chewing on some trail mix, we called it a night and puffed down the empty ski hill towards home.

I remember the first time I heard the loon’s call echoing across Garibaldi Lake. It was last year, almost to the week, and I sat lakeside trying to focus on reading Jack Whyte’s book The Eagle. But with the glacial silt coloured lake in front of me, surrounded by the panorama of mountains bearing names like Price, Deception, Guard, Sphinx, Bookworms, Castle Towers and Phyllis’ Engine, not to mention the Sphinx and Sentinel Glaciers, were too much of a distraction.

I kept looking up and losing my place on the page. Then I heard the call from across the lake. Haunting. Echoing. I wouldn’t hear it again for the remainder four days I spent exploring the nearby peaks by the lake. But I’ll never forget it, and it was worth the trip up this year again, just to sit lakeside awaiting that familiar call of the loon.

At 2 a.m. I reluctantly crawled out the warm cocoon that was my down sleeping bag and slipped my feet into cold boots. After lounging around the shelter by Garibaldi Lake all afternoon drinking almost three litres of water spiked with lemon-lime juice crystals and what I’m sure has an unhealthy dose of aspartame, I desperately needed to take a piss. So off I stomped in search of the outhouse.

That’s when I passed lakeside and saw the mist rising over the still waters, partially obscuring the perfect reflection visible by the full moon. The Battleship Islands stood out as a darker shadow against the black and white of Mount Price and Clinker Peak. Stars struggled to show themselves against the bright night sky. And the moon, it was missing a chunk.

The lunar eclipse had begun.

I tore up the hill, guided now by headlamp and answered nature’s call then returned to my tent. Reaching with one hand for my camera bag I stabbed the other into the lingering warmth of the sleeping bag, searching for the batteries I was keeping warm to hold their charge. Found, I was back by the lake where over the next hour I witnessed nighttime fall into a deeper dark.

If you look back in the history books, there have always been spirited adventurers who’ve pushed the boundaries. They expanded the maps for the armchair explorers to enjoy over a cup of coffee and they created a personality writers would elevate to myth status read by countless dreamers around the world. That they helped with the formation of this country also shouldn’t be missed either. The plowed fields and railroads only came after those wanderers had climbed the ridges to the distant horizon and swam in the glittering lakes first spotted through the thick foliage.

They first went out there in search of new adventure and a life away from society. Then they became the suppliers for the booming fur trade, hunting down many animals to near extinction. The gold rush provided another opportunity for the mercurial soul to search.

The mountaintops of all been claimed. The animals protected now as they should. And the gold panned out of the creeks and mined from the ground. Yet there are still generation after generation of travellers going out traversing ridges to summits and canoeing mirror calm lakes and crossing glacier melt creeks.

So what are they looking for? I don’t know. I’m one of those travellers and I’m still searching. Tomorrow I start on a two week vacation. The backpack is loaded and by the door, the car has a full tank of gas and my plans are only half formed.

I’ll know the rest when I get there.