My hiking journey began more as an exploration of my backyard. I was fortunate enough to be raised in the countryside, on the western slope of a foothill - our front window looking out over the Canadian Rocky Mountains. My brothers and I would be locked out of the house and told to go, explore and play. We built tree-forts in the forest above our house, swam in dugouts intended for irrigation and roamed the quarter section our parents made our home as if we were explorers to a new land. My first hike, in contrast, was a steep scramble up the side of a loose mountain. Far out of my skillset; I had never heard the words “leave no trace” and if you count a handful of gummy bears form a gas station as nutrition, I may have one of the ten essentials. It took me years to learn the basics.

As soon as I began backcountry camping I forgot that there was any other way to camp. I tunnel visioned on things that would be lightweight, that would make me faster. I sacrificed comfort at night for ease of movement during the day. And then recently I remembered that camping does not need to be that way. That there were ways to spend nights under the stars that felt more like home. And so, I booked a campsite and parked the car fifteen feet away, and although I still used my backpacking tent, sleeping mat and and sleeping bag… I indulged in a few of the finer things in life while in-between the redwood trees. And by finer things - we all know I mean food. So I am harding my meal planning for a night of camping in style.

“Cyclists see considerably more of this beautiful world than any other class of citizens. A good bicycle, well applied, will cure most ills this flesh is heir to” – Dr K.K. Doty

A lot of children grow up riding bicycles around the neighbourhood. I was not one of those children; I had no bike and no neighbourhood. It was not until my adult life that I fell in love with cycling. This love was a bit of a slow burn - the kind that, fortunately for me, makes for the longest lasting relationships. In the beginning I had trouble clipping in and out of my pedals efficiently (nobody taught me how and so, on more than one occasion, I ended up bike over body in the ditch on the side of the road), my seat was rigid and uncomfortable and hunching over tired my back and neck quickly.

This summer while waiting for a ferry that we just missed I got to chatting with the car in front of us and to my delight he works as a superintendent with Parks Canada. I peppered him with questions about his favourite hikes, the best parks and even learned a thing or two about how to properly use frequent flier miles. But somewhere just shy of an hour into the conversation we stumbled upon backcountry safety. He told a story of learning to backcountry ski in Roger’s Pass, how (rightfully so) he got chewed out by a group from Canmore when he and his friends rode a far too dangerous line. That they went, tails tucked between their legs, took the classes, picked up the gear and got the certifications. With more people than ever getting out of the city into their own little pieces of paradise there has also been a vast upswing in Search and Rescue calls this summer. He told us stories of calls that the parks had been receiving, about people with so many SAR

My mother is a many-times Boston Marathon runner, her sister a world champion IronMan competitor and as for me… I like to put heavy things on my back and walk uphill. Moving fast has never come naturally to me. But about a decade ago, to distance myself from my “freshman 15” I decided that I, like my mother, would be a runner. She is three inches taller than me, her hips line up with my armpits and our running technique would be akin to watching a race between a gazelle and a pug (I am not the gazelle in this comparison in case that was not clear). I remember the day I decided to start running. It is 2.5 miles from my parents’ house to the highway (they live on a farm, in the country, on the top of a hill) and I ambitiously (read: naïvely) thought that 5 miles would be a good starting distance. I made it down the driveway, too

I am not a cold weather person. My blanket statement is that I am either a very terrible Canadian or somehow skipped adulthood and went straight into the snow-bird lifestyle. In true Canadian fashion my parents signed a young Andrea up for figure skating, and then hockey… I eventually learned to ski and even took a swing at the rodel when I was in Austria - but no amount of exposure or ‘fun’ would compare in my mind to even the simplest of summer days. I could go on forever about the mis-adventures of winter and I but in the end it all adds up to me skipping the past few Canadian winters and heading anywhere but home