Creating Space

Alberta Adventure: Part One

My toes came back from Alberta, Canada happier than they’ve ever been in my life. Oh, the adventures they had! Oh, the waters they basked in; glacial lakes with awe-inspiring shades of emerald green, turquoise and aqua.

…soaking in hot springs, splashing in cold springs while I drank crisp, clean water straight from a mountain. One morning, my feet couldn’t decide if they were being electrocuted or frozen off in a waterfall. Another evening they felt as if they were dipping into the most luxuriously stunning painting of a river at sundown.

My toes certainly weren’t the only thing to be delighted and refreshed by my time in the Albertan mountains. But, perhaps to understand the magnitude of my experience, it would help to know a bit about how I ended up on this adventure.

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For the past year, I’ve been making space for myself in my life. As a mother of two young children, a homeschool teacher, wife, homesteader and leader of community initiatives, the process of losing myself in my life happened slowly over time. And the process of returning home to myself wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy, but it was invigorating and unequivocally worth it. Now, are you wondering, have I “done it”? Have I “arrived”? Well, no. Of course not. I don’t think that’s the point.

For me the point was waking up in the early morning hours to sit quietly with what surfaced in me when I put my hands on my heart and whispered “I love you, I’m listening”. The point was making time and space to get out of my own way and let my body and spirit absorb and fill with pure love. It was taking actions that felt clumsy like dancing again, acting like a goofball with my children, and having painfully uncomfortable conversations with loved ones. Over the course of the year, key relationships in my life changed dramatically. I remembered the joy playing music and singing, dancing, writing, basking in the sunshine. It wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine. There were moments of hysterical sobbing into my pillow, and moments of bone deep fear. But those moments passed. I continued listening, reawakening. I was feeling alive again!

In May of this year I began to feel like I was on a precipice. Like I was a chick ready to hatch and I just couldn’t quite peck through my shell. Questioning myself, I craved the strength of another person to be a solid rock foundation to hold me. Because what if, when I stepped into full embodiment of my magnitude, I exploded or fell to a million pieces? Despite my longing, no superheroes swooped in to save the day. So I went back to what I knew. I was quiet and listened.

I was curious and gentle with myself as I explored this feeling of being on the edge of something big and I realized that what I actually needed was space. Not just the kind of space that comes in the hour before dawn. Real, vast, expanses of space to test my theory that if no one was there to be my pillar of strength, I would have to find the rock solid aspect of myself.

In June I took some steps to create more space by honoring my own needs, despite the discomfort it brought up in someone I loved. I ached, I tried to sink my feet deeply into each moment, I reveled in summer’s beauty, and trusted that the next step would appear. And at the end of July, it did. A beautiful, loving friend offered me the most unexpected and life-changing gift; the gift of SO MUCH SPACE. She sent me a message and a check in the mail. She sponsored my trip to Canada, to a wonderful event that was taking place there.

Humbled to my core, with shock, excitement and five weeks to plan, I got busy. I instantly knew that I would not just go to Alberta for the gathering that had initiated the trip. I wanted to hike in the mountains and touch the glacial waters. I couldn’t imagine staying inside four walls while in such a majestic place, so I figured out how to make a camping trip work. Loved ones expressed concerns about bears, cliffs and other dangers. I did more research and talked to people on the ground who assured me of what I already knew. If I was prepared, smart and aware, I would be just fine. A friend offered to go with me on the trip. My heart skipped a happy beat. I loved adventures with this friend! But after the joyful little skip, my heart had a very clear message for me “you need to go alone”.

And that is how I found myself leaving the Calgary airport the night of September 4th, the sole captain of my beautiful Volvo SUV “ship”. Rolling into the Okotoks Best Western weary to my bones, I was so glad I’d treated myself to a hotel the first night. And what a joy to wake up to dozens of friendly smiles and open-armed hugs in the breakfast room the following morning. Many friends from around the world whom I’d connected with via the online community Time Has Come (hosted by

Graham Wardle

creator of the podcast with the same name) were also in Okotoks for the event that evening.

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Thursday I spent the day collecting my rental camp stove, sleeping bag and cooler, filling my cooler at the local health food store, and purchasing odds and ends like bear mace. It was 80 F and sunny and so easy to be full of joy and anticipation.

What a beautiful event we enjoyed at the Saskatoon Berry farm that evening. It was a celebration of transformation and changes for all of us who’d shared creativity, courage and authenticity with each other over the past 2+ years. Those who have the privilege of knowing Graham know that he has a superpower for facilitating wonderful conversations and knows outstanding, interesting people. So, our night felt like one of the best kinds spent chatting with friends who are full of insights, laughter, music and deep heartfelt emotions.

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Nerves crept in a tiny bit as I prepared to sleep my first night at a campsite in my SUV nest. But it was very late after a busy day. Tired and content, I slept like a baby. Part of me wanted to rush off to the mountains the moment I awoke. But part of me also wanted to put my camp stove to use and sip a cup of tea in the morning sunshine. I felt like I had things to digest before I was ready to hit the road.

This was the first of many, many times over the next three days that I just stopped and sat with myself, my internal landscape and the environment around me. Resistance raised it’s head for a moment. What might I miss, if I didn’t charge forth?! But, I had made a commitment to myself. I’d committed to let pleasure lead me. Now, I don’t mean indulgence. I mean true pleasure, like sunshine on your cheeks, sweet, spicy chai tea wafting from your mug as it warms your hands, a great book, or a magnificent view. The idea of being accountable only myself for three days was entirely new. And delicious. I wanted to savor it.

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As I drove out of Okotoks into the foothills with the mountains ahead of me, I can hardly describe the feeling. In an odd way (since I’ve never lived in or near the mountains) it felt like I was heading home after a long time away. On Highway 40, I felt like I was cruising through the heavens. No cell signal, nothing but pastures, mountains and sky. And cows. I had to slow to a stop at one point because a mama was nursing her calf in the middle of the highway! You have no idea how much delight that cow and her baby stirred in me.

My first hike was a little one to Cat’s Creek Falls. I was in grizzly country now, and the winding paths up through a meadow, past a ravine and into the forest were gentle enough that I could sing the whole way. “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day…” and “Give me the ridge of the mountains all whispered up with snow…” I wasn’t singing for anyone. Except the bears, I suppose. But one lovely woman and her husband crossed my path and told me that I had the most beautiful voice they’d ever heard on the trails. Apparently they hear a lot of people singing to warn off the bears. What an unexpected and generous complement.

By the time I returned from Cat Creek Falls, continued along Highway 40 and arrived at my main destination for the day, it was nearly 4pm. The sun was supposed to set about 8pm and I hesitated to tackle the hike that was reported to take 2-4 hours in and back. But after speaking with a helpful ranger, I decided to do it. I was there and based on the research I’d done, it was the hike I was most excited about. Rawson Lake did not disappoint.

For starters, I couldn’t stop grinning at the trailhead, which was on the shores of Upper Kananaskis Lake. It was the first of the glacial lakes I saw, and though not the most impressive, it was utterly gorgeous, expansive and rimmed with mountains. I crossed a waterfall and the trail ascended in a series of steep switchbacks for about an hour. It was intense enough that I couldn’t sing, so I resorted to the ranger’s recommended call of “hey bears!” every five minutes. For a few paces, I had to draw up my steel. It was slightly unnerving to be alone. But I wasn’t alone. I wish I could write words descriptive enough to share the smell of that old growth evergreen forest. It was magical.

Alert to possible signs of bears, aware of the placement of my feet, breathing in the thinning spruce-scented air, I was so solidly in my body. So very present in the moment. And it began to feel like a walking meditation of the most wonderful variety.

The living trees were remarkable, but I was surprisingly enthralled and delighted with the tangled, smooth, exposed roots of fallen trees. They were like sculptures that called me to stop a moment and rest a hand upon them. One stump was surprisingly humorous, leaving me chuckling to myself. Another seemed to be a safe place for my sorrows to land. Later, as I felt a wave of frustration about doing so much letting go, I spoke out loud to myself, “I just want to receive.” And around the bend a collection of ancient roots seemed to offer a limb, out of which flowed such a subtle, gentle current of loving energy.

I was actually surprised when I found myself approaching Rawson Lake through the trees. As I stepped onto the shore, the awe and wonder I felt manifested itself as tears running down my cheeks. The sheer magnitude and beauty had the opposite effect of taking my breath away. The air rushed into my lungs, vibrating and alive.

I stood and watched the light change as the sun sank behind the ridge. The water became a deep emerald green. Suddenly, I was thankful for the impulse I’d had to throw a swimsuit in my backpack. I didn’t travel across two countries and up a mountain to just look at the lake. Finding a secluded nook in the trees, I stripped off my hiking shoes, leggings and bra and prepared to dive in. My tester toe told me the water was as cold as I expected it to be, but the edge of the lake was rocky, so I couldn’t just barrel in. I walked carefully through the icy shallows and as soon as it gave way to a sudden drop off, I dove headfirst into the depths. Resurfacing, I found my way out with remarkable speed! Standing there dripping, I felt so full of vitality. So connected.

I observed an interesting phenomenon while I was on this trip. I often became deeply immersed in a moment, in a place. Maybe that moment would become hours. I felt so much, soaked the experiences in through my skin and radiated them back out in profound gratitude. And then, rather abruptly, I would feel it was time to go. So, usually without ceremony, I went. It was like this at Rawson Lake. I dried off with my shirt, changed back into my hiking garb and whispering a heartfelt “thank you”, I walked back to the trail. I did stop once at the place where I’d first emerged from the forest and let my eyes feast. Then I hiked back down the mountain.

I made it back to the trailhead just before dusk and enjoyed the benefits that came from all my belongings being carefully stowed in my vehicle. My camp stove and I enjoyed dinner with a view before I got back on the road.

I was leaving Kananaskis Country and headed to Banff National Park. I’ll share my adventures in Banff in Part Two of this story…

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