2005: Jasper to Banff

The Plan

I imagine it was my dad’s idea to bike this route.  The Icefields Parkway, or Highway 93, is probably his favourite roadway.  It connects the two national parks of Banff and Jasper, and passes through some of the most breathtaking scenery I have ever seen.  I had only traveled on this road once before, with my family in October 2002.  At that time of year snow was everywhere, but I could still imagine what an amazing ride it could be.  

My roommate Scott and I envisioned this trip as a practire run for what we were still imagining would be a trip coast-to-coast across Canada.  Now, in retrospect, I consider it a piece of my piece-by-piece trip across the country.

At some point in the planning Scott dropped out, too busy with his summer job.  That was not, however, the end of the trip, as my oldest two brothers (I have four) and one of their friends were eager to participate.  

Luckily for me, at nineteen, my dad took care of the planning.  He and my youngest two brothers would come along for the adventure, driving and setting up camp, providing support as needed.  This made the trip much, much simpler than it might have been otherwise.  We had to carry almost nothing on our bikes since Dad would meet us periodically to feed and hydrate us and ensure everything was going well. 

We left some time in the first week of June.  We drove to Jasper in my family’s fifteen-passenger Dodge van, all seven of us, with bags and tents and camping gear piled in the back, and bikes on racks in front and behind.  We camped that first night at Pocahontas campground just east of the town of Jasper. 

Early the next day we broke camp and drove into Jasper itself.  There, somewhere on main street we detached the bikes, clipped on our helmets, and set out. 

It only takes a couple of minutes to bike out of Jasper.  There is a set of traffic lights at the intersection of Highway 93, the road into Jasper, and the Yellowhead, Highway 16.  We crossed here and headed south. 

Even in June the temperature along the Icefields Parkway is much cooler than elsewhere.  It runs between snow-capped mountains and along the Athabasca River, and most of the vegetation is mosses and lichens and coniferous trees.  Still, it was a warm day and with the sun out it was also absolutely gorgeous. 

The highway is rarely busy, and was largely deserted in early June.  This meant that even though we were biking on the shoulder of the road we could relax and focus on the scenery and biking rather than the cars to our left.  In fact, we could occasionally ride two abreast.

The Athabasca River is quite wide and mostly shallow, running over rocks of all sizes and shapes.  In some places the rocks are so large that white-capped, foaming rapids occur.   For the most part the northern half of the highway runs just east of the river—at most half a kilometre away.  The distance between the road and the mountains varies.  In some places the valley is quiet narrow, and in others much wider, probably as much as ten kilometres in spots.  The valley is rarely forested densely, although trees—almost all evergreens—are certainly very common.  The more common vegetation is the moss and lichens—in nearly every imaginable colour—that cover the rocks and even the tree trunks.  Greens and golds and reds are the most vivid colours, but the palette includes browns and blacks and whites and greys and all shades of yellow.

Our ride this day was nearly exactly one hundred kilometres.  Our stop for the night was directly opposite the Columbia Icefield, or, more specifically, the Athabasca Glacier that descends from the icefield into the valley, the source of the Athabasca River.  For the vast majority of the ride we rode on relatively flat ground, with rolling hills here and there, but never any significant climbs.  Dad met up with us once to refill our water and give us some food, but mostly this portion was uneventful, relaxing, and easy.

Late in the afternoon, however, we reached what remains, by far, the hardest climb I have ever faced on a bicycle.  We were quickly in our lowest gear as we grinded our way upwards.  There was a lookout about a quarter or a third of the way up, and we stopped here to rest and enjoy the view.  We were already considerably higher than the river, with much higher to go.  We made it about halfway up before we could not pedal anymore.  We walked the last half in single file, sweating and panting.  Even many of the vehicles were struggling to maintain the speed limit as they made the climb.

At last, eventually, we reached the summit.  For a while the slope downward was equally steep, but, here, not nearly as long.  For a few minutes we rode the brakes down.  A herd of mountain goats had drifted onto the road just as it was levelling out some, making for a unique experience, weaving our wary way between them.

The campground was only a few more kilometers ahead now, still well above the river.  The sun began dropping below the high mountain peaks just as we were closing those last kilometers, and it suddenly got significantly colder.  The long arm of the Athabasca glacier to our right shone brightly in places where it caught the setting sun; other parts of the glacier and most of the mountains we could see were dramatically darker, cast in shadow.

Dad had set up camp hours before, and a large bonfire was roaring as we pedalled in, one by one.  We ate around the campfire, worn out but triumphant.  Our first, longest day was behind us and we assumed that there would not be another enormous mountain to climb the next day.  For all of us, it was the first time we had cycled a metric century.

The night was cold.  In my experience, there are no warm evenings in this mountain pass.  Once the sun descends, the glacier is the valley’s temperature’s most significant influence. 

A restless, uncomfortable sleep ended early, and we awoke sore and reluctant.  We lit a fire, using kindling we could scrounge up without venturing too far from the campsite, and ate a hot, hearty breakfast Dad prepared for us—eggs, hashbrowns, sausages, and toast. 

The campground has minimal running water, and certainly no showers or sinks, so we brushed our teeth around a cold water tap.

Eventually, we rolled on out, down the little incline to the highway, clustered together at first, spreading out as the first few kilometres went by. 

As the sun rose up over the eastern peaks, the day warmed—and a good cycling rhythm did not hurt.

If the previous day was the first metric century any of us had ridden, this day was the second.  And for those of you who have never rode significant lengths on consecutive days, let me tell you: the second day is nothing like the first.  Every revolution strains a muscle aching from the day before, and usually more than one.  Calves, thighs, bum—even back and wrists and hands—all ache in their own way and with their own intensity.

We battled through it, and quickly the ride got a whole lot easier.  Somehow we had failed to realize that the height we had climbed the day before had not been equaled by the distance we had descended to the campground.  Apparently, the distances were not even close.

My two-day old speedometer hit 80 kmph as we coasted downwards, winding close to the mountain cliff, praying and hoping that neither cars nor pebbles would interfere with our descent.  I had certainly never before, and have not since, cycled that fast.  Nor do I ever want to.  I was hesitant to even apply the brakes, unsure how my bike would react to the friction from the brake pads.  

Interestingly, our descent coincided with the ascent of numerous runners, taking part in a Banff-Jasper run, meaning the handful of vehicles on the road were driving very, very cautiously. 

The rest of that day is rather unmemorable.  It began to rain off and on,  I remember the viciousness of a head and chest cold setting in as the day drew to a close and I grew weaker and weaker.  I was certainly the weakest of our group of riders this day. 

At some point Dad met us, throwing open the large door of the van and revealing a spread of hot hamburgers, freshly cooked over the campfire up ahead in Lake Louise.  Unfortunately, we were ravenously hungry and also very cold, and we overate. 

Despite the struggles, we finished up the day, one by one, rolling into the Lake Louise Campground well before sunset.  We had ridden nearly 130 kilometers, significantly more than the previous day.  The weather had been worse, and I was feeling very sick, but without that enormous climb on day one, I think it was an easier day overall.  

That night was warmer, and much more restful than the previous one, and we slept all the more comfortably knowing the next day’s ride was an easy one. 

By car, the fastest way between Lake Louise and Banff is Highway 1, the Trans Canada.  It’s probably also the fastest way by bicycle, but it’s a busy highway, with serious fences on either side to keep out wildlife, and every few kilometers even more serious animal overpasses above to allow the wildlife to cross.  In other words, it is a corridor designed for quick, safe, and efficient car and truck and bus transportation—not cyclists. 

So, I had the idea of sticking to alternate roads as much as possible, mostly Highway 1A.  It was not a bad idea, but while these roads run roughly parallel to the main highway, they do not run quite as straight, nor do they have generous shoulders, and our pace felt painfully slow.  Still, this route had significantly less traffic traveling at a significantly slower speed than the highway.

 

The alternate roads only took us halfway or so to Banff, and for the last thirty kilometers we were forced onto the dreaded Trans Canada.  Actually, it was not so bad, and the home stretch went quickly, especially since we had little incentive to stop anyway.  After all, no one I know wants to watch cars fly by at 110 kilometers an hour, or look at weeds growing between the cracks of the rock-lined ditches, or admire the high chain link fences that make the highway corridor feel like a prison compound—keeping us trapped within more so than keeping the moose and bears out. 

One by one, glorious as much as weary, we rolled into Banff.  One by one, our bikes were mounted on the van’s bike racks, two on the front, two on the back, and soon Dad was driving home, with triumphant cyclists in various states of consciousness on the back benches.