Tag Archives: hiking

Pentecost pilgrims

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It’s always the last mile that’s the hardest! You think you must be there and the end is just around the corner or over the next hill… then it isn’t!

Arriving in Santiago de Compostela was just like this – we’d seen the cathedral towers in the distance way back, the streets were getting narrower and the yellow arrows appeared to have given up. Which way now? Then I spotted a brass scallop shell in the pavement – this was the way. We must be close! The narrow cobbled streets were full of people and it was hard work negotiating a way through with a back pack and walking poles.

At last we were entering the huge piazza and the immense cathedral frontage loomed above us. We’d arrived at the same time as a couple of pilgrims from the Netherlands who we’d be sharing the last few days of the journey with off and on. We all laughed and hugged and said the inevitable congratulations to one another.

Each of us seemed somehow dazed and after taking a few photos we just dropped our rucksacks and sat on the ground looking up at the vast stone towers.

We’d made it. It felt good. All around the square there were groups of pilgrims taking photos, couples hugging, people cheering, while some just sat staring ahead as if they couldn’t believe it was over.

As I limped towards the Pilgrim’s Office to collect my certificate, I was still trying to work out what it was all about. It had been more than a physical challenge, something else was going on and for each of us that would be different.

An hour or two later as I sat in one of the plain wooden pews inside the cathedral gazing up at the huge silver thurible suspended over the altar, I was still wondering what this Camino meant for me.

I have loved being immersed in God’s creation walking through such beauty and variety, from the sandy coastal boardwalks to the steep stone and water trails, with twisting paths beside gushing streams carving a route between moss clad trees and huge boulders. Then being bathed in scented shade through forests of eucalyptus and pines.

I have also loved meeting pilgrims from all over the world – sharing stories, giving encouragement and re-meeting each another throughout the journey. One group of young people from New York, who we had shared a meal with in our very first hostel, were so happy to meet up with us again on that final path into Santiago. The connection with others along the road is a very important part of pilgrimage.

But one thing stands out for me in all this and that has been precious time to talk with God in an unhurried way as I walk. Walking alone surrounded by nature has opened up a window on prayer that has been invaluable. I have loved chatting with God, asking for help, guidance and healing for friends, for family, and for myself. I’ve had a chance to listen to his still small voice whispering through the grasses or reassuring me as I rest my palm against a mossy tree trunk. I’m so grateful for this time and for new perspectives, deeper calm and glimpses of a rhythm of grace I have been searching for.

As we journey back by bus from Santiago to Porto for our flight home, we are speeding past all the hills, valleys and towns we have trailed through these past 14 days. It brought home that it really was quite a long walk!

Yesterday we stood in awe during the Pentecost service in Santiago Cathedral, while the giant thurible flew through the air above us. It was an amazing sight as the cathedral team hauled on the ropes and the smoke from the incense filled the air around us. I’d never seen anything like it. The choral music added to the atmosphere, and with the cathedral packed with worshippers, there was a tangible sense of our prayers rising up to God on this very special Holy Spirit day.

My hope and prayer going home is that this pilgrimage experience will open up a new way of praying and of being – both on and off the Camino.

What to put in your backpack

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What would your ‘must haves’ be if you had to put your stuff into a pack and carry it on your back across the mountains for a few days?

It’s a question I was wrestling with last week in preparation for a rather long walk.

I’d taken out everything except the absolute essentials, but when I heaved the pack onto my back, I knew a few more ‘essentials’ would have to go.

It was the day before we set off on the first stage of the Camino Frances – the full journey is a 500 plus mile walk from France across the Pyrenees into northern Spain, ending at Santiago de Compostela. This time we would only be doing the first gruelling 45 miles or so from St Jean Pied de Port to the bull running Spanish town of Pamplona.

I’d been informed we would have to climb to more than the height of Ben Nevis in the first two days – this might have felt less daunting if it wasn’t for the pack.

So, what was in the bag? Annoyingly a sleeping bag, a travel towel, pants and socks and one extremely light weight change of clothes, flip flops, plus my toothbrush, hairbrush, suncream and that was practically it, apart from the water, oh, and a hat and a waterproof. Then there was the food! It all added up.

It’s been a long time since I walked with a backpack, and it took some time getting used to the weight on my hips and the pull on my shoulders. Still, it was surprising how quickly I adapted and focused less on the weight and more on the views around me and the path ahead.

There is a sense of freedom about stepping out with all you need on your back and heading towards your destination without looking back. We wouldn’t be returning to the cobbled streets of St Jean until we’d reached our destination and grabbed a lift back to the car, which we hoped would be where we’d parked it!

I’ve been wanting to walk the Camino for years, ever since I stumbled out of the cinema in Nottingham, eyes still moist with tears, after watching the film, ‘The Way’.  I remember saying to my companions at the time, “I want to do that!” 

Although I’ve been banging on about pilgrimages and the Camino for years, my husband has remained solidly indifferent to the idea. So, it is a little bit of a miracle that embarking on this four-day ‘mini Camino’ was his suggestion. It conveniently filled a gap in our holiday, when our friends were busy, and gave us a chance to try out our walking abilities in advance of a planned two-week Camino next year from Porto in Portugal to Santiago de Compostela.

What we hadn’t quite taken in was how tough the first few days would be as we hiked up the Napoleon route to a height of 1,400 metres. The good thing about being out of breath is that you’re forced to stop and take in the views – and these were some views. Walking ever upwards, sometimes we were passed by the fast-paced pilgrims and at other times we overtook people taking a break. At one point five of us leaned on a five-bar gate, catching our breath and staring down at where we’d come from. There we were – two Aussies, two Brits and an American – it sounds like a joke, but a few days later we were pilgrim buddies, sharing our day and our lives over coffees, beers and pintxos.

One of the greatest joys on this Camino turned our to be our fellow pilgrims. Sitting across the table on our first evening was an enthusiastic 78-year-old who was walking The Way with her daughter. If she could do it, surely we should be able to? 

The ‘pilgrim supper’ in the hostel, for almost 20 of us, included a delightful mix of nationalities from Japan to Canada and the Netherlands to Australia. Each one had a story to share about why they were walking the Camino and there was a common theme – they all hoped this journey would be one of self-discovery and for many spiritual enlightenment. There was an air of excitement and high emotion that evening, no one knew what lay ahead.

That night we settled down in our wood lined room, items of clothing drying all around us, we hoped we’d be up to the big climbs tomorrow and that the 7am breakfast and dawn start wouldn’t be too much of a shock.

Three days on the ‘pinch of salt path’

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A brief encounter of the naked kind was just one of the unexpected happenings during three days on the South West Coastal Path.

We’ve been on a mission for a few days – a “training” mission apparently – preparing for a possible long hike along the coast of Portugal to Santiago de Compostella. This would be a 170-mile pilgrimage journey over a couple of weeks, if we can manage it.

As we have one of the world’s best hiking routes on our doorstep we decided to test out our endurance levels with three days back-to-back walking. This was a bit of a first for us.

Having completed other parts of the ‘salt path’ over the past few years, we decided to fill in some of the stretches we hadn’t pulled in. The first day dawned with some light cloud and a gentle breeze and I quickly realised I would mainly be walking solo as my hiking partner’s long stride was impossible to keep pace with. 

One of the things keeping me going on all the ups and downs and twists and turns was taking off my walking boots and having a swim in the clear waters of Lannacombe bay. This was also the point at which we turned round and retraced our steps to Gara Rock.

En route we’d passed some amazing rocky outcrops and hidden sandy coves where the path became narrow and it was a bit of a scramble through the rocks, with a very steep drop below us. I was just recovering from one of these rocky passages and keeping my eyes on the uneven path, when I looked ahead and saw a man in a rucksack approaching. The path was very narrow and I realised he had stopped to let me pass. It was then I realised why he was holding his hat in particular position. He was completely naked – apart from his boots.

It had turned into a balmy afternoon and I’m sure he was enjoying the sun on his back (and his butt). As I squeezed past him, I thanked him for waiting and thought for a millisecond about saying, “Nice hat!”. I resisted the temptation to look back at his bare essentials heading along the cliff. However, when I eventually caught up with my walking partner, he gave me a blow-by-blow description of everything I’d missed. I’d heard of naked hikers, but this was the first one I’d met… he certainly helped brighten up the last few miles of that day!

Blisters = 0

Blackberries eaten = 5

Wildlife = 2 seals and a slowworm

Water = not enough

On the morning of day two, although we knew all the right things to pack, we were tired. So, when we eventually sat down for lunch by Mothercombe beach, we discovered I had forgotten to pack the lemon Fanta. Small things (especially food and drink items) seem to take on enormous importance on a hike and it took one of us some time to get over the disappointment of only having water to drink.

While we were waiting for the sun to come out, we chatted to another pair of hikers from Belgium who were heading east, hoping to cross the river Erme somehow. They ended up persuading a man with a dinghy to take them across with their packs. Breaking away from his birthday beach party, he bundled one ruck sack and one girl into the little dinghy and set off against the tide, the dinghy lying low in the water. Meanwhile we went for a swim and expected to see him appearing back around the headland for his second passenger. 

A long while later we spotted him rowing the dinghy to his yacht, which was anchored some way off the beach. We assumed he’d run out of fuel. Drying off from our swim, we watched as he reached the yacht – hopefully he would pick up his fuel and return shortly. But a few minutes later we spotted the dinghy floating across the bay, away from the yacht, and he wasn’t on it! The drama continued. On the beach, the other hiker was on her phone messaging her friend. The party on the shore, looked across the water as the lone yachtsman pulled up his anchor and went in pursuit of his dinghy, which can’t have been tied up securely. Although we really should have been setting off again, we couldn’t leave until we’d seen the outcome of the seaside rescue!

In the end the dinghy was retrieved, the yacht was re-anchored and the sailor returned to the shore. He collected the other hiker and her pack and sped across to the far beach to reunite her with her friend. It was turning out to be a very eventful day on the salt path.

As we were nearing the end of our journey that day, we’d skirted round a large mobile home park on the cliffs and passed a lot of people coming and going from there with their dogs. I now owe an apology to the man in the straw trilby we passed later that afternoon. I had made a disparaging comment about his orange T-shirt and white socks being an indication that he’d come from the holiday park. No sooner had I said this quite loudly, to catch the ear of my fellow hiker who was striding ahead, than I turned round to see him directly behind me. I jumped and let out a stifled gasp. He asked me what was wrong, and I said he’d given me a shock as I hadn’t realised he was behind me. I don’t think I could have gone any redder, as I was already flushed with the sun and walking.

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 10

Wildlife = another slowworm

Water supply = just right

Day three it was a little harder to get up and out, but I had packed the lemon Fanta this time – it was double checked before we left the house. The clouds were gathering as we drove into the car park where we would start our walk towards Plymouth.

Reaching back for our boots, there was an ominous, “Oh, no. I’ve left my socks behind.”

This was bad news, I didn’t think much walking could be done without a pair of hiking socks. Surely this was a larger error than forgetting the Fanta? Luckily, as I’ve developed a blister I had my trainers in the car with a pair of thick white socks in them. It turned out they fitted size 11 feet also! I glanced across at my fellow hiker, he was now wearing white socks and in his bag was an orange fleecy top! We both burst out laughing – it was a good way to start the day.

The rain came eventually once we’d reached our destination and as we trudged through the woods back along the coast, we could hear the foghorn from a ferry booming through the mist. A marker by the path said Poole was 175 miles from this point, which means there is a lot more “training” to be done!

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 15

Water supply = 2 spare bottles

Lost in the jungle – just for an afternoon

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How hard can it be walking down a hill for a few hours? Well throw in a jungle, 37 degree heat and a lack of signs and it turns out to be quite difficult…

Last month I found myself staying for a few nights in Penang – a small island off Malaysia. It was meant to be a mini break with a colleague, which we had tagged onto the back of a week of work meetings in Kuala Lumpur. We had both decided it would be nice to take some time to explore a little of Malaysia and take some time to relax.

The word ‘relax’ didn’t fit too well into the first morning. Due to the extreme heat, we decided to pick up a ‘grab’ (Asian uber) at 7am and head to the historic George Town before the temperatures overtook us. We enjoyed meandering round the streets filled with murals that reminded me of Banksy and enjoyed photographing a huge variety of doors and ornate buildings, along with a stroll through the ramshackle market stalls on the jetties.

As the heat started to crank up we caught another grab to the foot of Penang Hill and bought tickets for the funicular railway which would take us to the top. The plan was to enjoy the shade of the trees and cooler air higher up as well as the views and the wildlife. 

The journey on the train was a little longer than I had envisaged – after all this was just a hill. And as it rose higher through the trees we could see paths and steps descending below. I wondered how long it would take us to walk down.

After enjoying lunch Malaysian-style with the vista of George town spread out below, slightly obscured by the clouds, we started to look for the start of the path down. The monkeys chattering overhead distracted us for a while and we eventually had to ask a passing man in running gear and trainers if he knew the way down the ‘hill’.

“You walking?” he asked. We nodded enthusiastically. He was looking at our feet – both displaying less than sturdy sandals.

“You can go that way, but probably the jeep track is best.” And he pointed at our shoes… or lack of them.

My colleague, Annette, is from New Zealand and didn’t fancy a track used by cars.

“How bad can it be?” she said. And so we followed the path down.

The jungle lined trail zig zagged down the hillside and we were encouraged by meeting other hikers coming up. They gave us breathless greetings and carried on in their trainers and walking poles. We continued to slither a bit in sandals.

There were some intersections at various points without any signs, we followed our noses, which took us to someone’s house. So, we trailed back up the hill, breathing heavily as sweat began to drip down our faces. We didn’t want to make any more navigation errors in this heat. But half an hour later we found ourselves back at a gateway, with images of guard dogs on the entrance.

As we retraced our steps yet again, I told Annette I had seen the pictures of an animal higher up on a tree but, as I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had thought it was a tiger – which is more worrying a tiger or a guard dog?

The lack of signs and the apparent inaccuracies of the map we’d taken a photo of higher up, were beginning to become frustrating. As we finally began heading on what we thought was the right path, a young man in trainers bounded across to us and asked if we knew the way. We felt confident we’d found the trail at last and he seemed to agree and quickly overtook us. We saw him pause at yet another junction in the path lower down, before turning left. We followed on, which turned out to be a mistake. The path became narrow and steep. But there were ropes built into the trees to hold onto and the trail quickly evolved into a kind of assault course, where we had to descend backwards, holding the ropes and at some points swing ourselves round steep rocky drops to the path below. The sandals were doing their best, but they were only sandals.

We’d been going sometime now and occasionally had glimpses of the train through the trees or heard it rumbling by up above. The climbing ropes eventually joined the proper path we should have taken and there were several more dead ends before we finally came out into a clearing where we could see one of the midway railway stations and the houses and town below seemed a little closer.

It was gone two in the afternoon and the sun was intense. We could hear voices on the other side of the railway and began to fear we were on the wrong path again. A narrow trail led left and right below. Which was the right way? We were very tired and hot. The water was running low and we needed a sign. 

“Oh God, please give us a sign!” I said, and it was a kind of prayer. We stepped towards the path leading directly down and passed under a wooden arch. As we turned to look back, we saw the sign for the Penang Hill Trail directly over our heads. We had found the official path at last.

However, finding the path was just the beginning of a very long walk downhill filled with steps that seemed to go on forever. Our legs were becoming very wobbly, and we started counting to 20 steps and then stopping for a rest, but the mosquitoes soon had us moving on again.

When we finally found our way back we headed for cool drinks in a café and nursed our aching limbs as we waited for a grab to take us back to the apartment. Plans for an evening out on the town were on hold, in favour of a bit of a lie down in a cool room!

Penang ‘Hill’ turned out to be more of an adventure than we had planned and it took some time for our muscles to recover from that afternoon stroll through the Malaysian jungle. 

I am not sure Malaysians use the word ‘hill’ in the same way as us at all – we’re calling it ‘Penang Mountain’ because that’s what it felt like that afternoon.

A night at ‘one monk island’

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We’ve gone from whistling wind and rocking motions to the sound of silence and barely a breath of air… For the first time this morning I could hear the gentle hum of the fridge when I turned it on!

We’re half way through our little Greek sailing adventure and now living life above and below decks has become the new routine.

Yesterday evening we arrived here, at what we call, “One monk island”. Because just one monk lives here in the monastery, with his solar panels and olive grove. There is also another monk we’ve been looking out for here – the monk seal – but we’ve not spotted him yet.

After several days of changeable and strong winds, we have dropped anchor in what looks like an inland lake with deep turquoise water. Navigating the entrance in was tricky, as it was very narrow and shallow, approach advised in calm weather only. We made it, despite being tossed about by a speeding motorboat, which raced past us at the narrowest point creating lots of swell!

Last night with no lights ashore, we stared up at the stars and watched satellites tracking across a velvet sky, there was even a shooting star. Earlier we’d heard the sound of bleating and spotted a little family of goats picking their way between the rocks and bracken on the hillside, before reaching the shore and gently lapping at the salty water.

There are just a couple of other boats anchored here and this morning the water is like glass. The scenery reminds us of Scotland. The silence is deafening.

Today is in sharp contrast to a couple of days earlier, when strong winds left us ‘harbour-bound’ and we decided to go for a hike… in the heat!

Having asked a local estate agent the way to a sandy beach further round the coast, he shook his head.

“You can’t walk there you must drive,” he said, miming a steering wheel between his hands.

Never say “you can’t” because we’re bound to try and prove you wrong. The climb up out of Skopelos port wound up steep stone steps past four tiny ancient churches perched on the cliff side. At the top we were tempted by the blue and white cafe with a view, selling fresh orange juice… but we pressed on – we were on a mission to the beach.

Before setting out we’d been reading about hiking trails round the island, it seemed the T3 was the route to this particular beach… that’s how we read it anyway! We were on the look out for T3 signs off the road and soon enough we congratulated ourselves on finding a beautiful trail through the trees on an ancient rocky path. I was enjoying walking for a change, after weeks on board and only swimming for exercise. It was good for the swaying to stop too.

Sometime later we came to a road and our walking sign pointed left, in the distance to the right we could see blue water. The sign was very clear, no need to cross check on google maps, we thought. The clever trail would take us down the valley to the sea.

Twenty minutes later we’d branched off the road and descended a stony track to the base of the valley. We spotted three deer on the way and hundreds of ancient olive trees. I was loving the hike. But five minutes later the track disappeared into brambles and nettles! We searched for another route and then eventually checked the phone maps. We were off route – it turns out we were both better at navigating on water than land!

A short climb later and a good few kilometres along a road and another track, we were very hot and weary, but determined to prove we could walk to the beach! We were both dripping wet when we arrived at the beach and dived into the water with some relief.

The walk back was a lot shorter, but still steep and this time we did stop for an orange juice at the blue and white cafe!

Back at the boat we felt heroic hikers and I examined my blisters… Better stick to sailing for now.

I don’t think we’re that great with quiet. Despite last night’s thoughts of a day of contemplation, reading and writing, neither of us wanted to linger long on One Monk Island today. So, we have set sail again. Not just to find wi fi and signal, but because the still heat was making us jittery and we long to feel the breeze against our backs and hear the slosh of the water against the bows of the boat.

This is the life – we’re sailing on a passage into the blue leaving the islands behind us. Who knows where it will take us?

Meanwhile below decks it’s time to get the coffee on.

5 bears in 4 days

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Canadian bears are a bit like buses. You wait for hours with none, then four come along all at once.

It was our seventh day in Canada and I’d begun to wonder if the bears were just a tourism ploy to lure us in with false hopes. We’d seen plenty of wonderful sights including thunderous water falls showering us in spray from impossible heights, deep rocky canyons where ice blue water gushed through narrow channels, turquoise lakes glistening in the sunlight and many more spectacular sights from hiking trails with panoramic views. I’d given myself the shakes standing too near the edge of a rocky outcrop on the Bee Hive above Lake Louise. We’d crossed snow covered paths on steep shale slopes and eaten numerous bananas to get us the last few miles back on some long hikes up and down mountains and beside crystal lakes which changed colours under the passing clouds. 

Now we were heading north to Jasper and the number of times I was banging my head in the camper van were decreasing. We stopped for lunch where the roaring Athabasca river meets Kicking Horse river, which reminded me of a scene from a cowboy film where horses cross just before an ambush. It was just after this that we spotted the bear. The sharp eyed driver saw something black moving up ahead and as we drew up we could see the bear bumbling along happily in the greenery beside the road apparently munching anything in sight. We were the only vehicle there, so we had him to ourselves. Disobeying the well laid down rules someone jumped out camera in hand and started snapping away. The bear, and it was a small very cute looking black bear with a brown nose and lovely eyes, continued his foraging and turned helpfully to gaze towards the camera at one point. From the safety of the van, I was fretting about the mother being in the area, as he was clearly quite young. By now we had caused a bit of a jam, so we moved up to a pull in. As the bear began crossing the road behind us, the Parks Canada patrol pulled up with words of warning to the driver/photographer who was asked politely to get back in the vehicle. This little reprimand couldn’t destroy our joy at seeing the bear so close to us and capturing our best photos so far.

Parks Canada staff patrol the park vigilantly in white trucks with a green stripe. They are a bit like school prefects. You know you’re doing something you shouldn’t… Ah, look behind, there is a Parks Canada truck just on cue! It happened each time we saw a bear – well almost. Anytime we were contemplating a slight deviation from the rules, one would appear! How did they know? It’s a mystery.

Our next bear sighting was the following day as we drove into our campsite, where we were warned a bear had been ‘hanging out’ an hour earlier, so be careful. We drove slowly round and suddenly spotted a large black bear munching grass by a picnic table in an empty camp spot. He stared straight at us and it was probably his size and proximity that made us stay in the van at first – he was only a few feet away. Just as he began moving away and we thought about getting out, yes, you guessed, the Parks Canada truck appeared behind us and started hooting at the bear to encourage it to go up the hill away from the campsite. The photos weren’t quite what we’d hoped for.

The next day en route south two more bears were spotted along the roadside, munching. Another large black bear and at last a young ginger coloured grizzly. We felt quite happy that we’d enjoyed a few sightings and captured some snaps to prove it. The following day we saw another black bear with his back to us, sitting on a grassy bank in the sunshine. Unfortunately, the Parks Canada patrol put a stop to photos that afternoon and we all left the bear to enjoy his picnic in peace.

Seeing the bears had made me a little more cautious about hiking in ‘beary’ type habitat. But we’d been in Canada well over a week and reckoned a path along the side of the lake was somewhere we wouldn’t need bear spray. We were wrong. Half an hour in the path veered into the woods where a large sign said hikers should travel in groups of four or more and carry bear spray as this was a place where grizzly bears lived and ate their lunch. We both hesitated and looked up at the track ahead. It was a fair way to go back for the bear spray… Luckily for us another hiker appeared and we asked if he would be happy for us to tag along, explaining about the lack of bear spray. Jeff was a jolly Canadian ‘postie’ (postal worker) out for a day hike.

“Sure, I’ll hike with you. I don’t have bear spray, but I have dog spray!”

I was thinking flea spray and wondering if it would do the trick. But he fished an aerosol can out of his pocket. Apparently, it was of a similar kind of ‘defensive weapon’ and should do the job in an emergency.

“I tested it in a paper bag before I left and I couldn’t stop sneezing, so I know it works.” He assured us.

I had a picture of a bear blowing his nose into an embroidered hankie and shaking his head, saying, “You made me sneeze… why did you make me sneeze?”

Jeff filled us in on his bear encounters in Lake Louise when he was working on the gondola lift during a ski season. He hadn’t seen any today, just some long horned sheep on the road coming in. On the way back, pepper spray untouched, we spotted some long horned sheep who crossed the trail ahead of us. There were several sweet looking lambs and what looked like a large ram who hovered on a rock above the path. Cameras were clicking and this obviously made the ram nervous. Seconds later he was trotting towards us very purposefully with his head down. I skipped further up the path followed by my fellow hiker, stowing his camera and saying, “I thought he was coming for me.” Meanwhile, Jeff had scrambled to take cover behind a large tree, pepper spray to hand. As he caught up and we were all striding away down the track, with a steep drop bedside us, the ram continued to follow us. Every few metres he would stop and turn his back on us, as if to say, “Run and hide – I’m coming to get you!” Jeff showed us the red scrapes from the tree on his arm and said the story of a ‘killer sheep’ on the Minnewanker (yes, it is spelt like that!) Lake trail would be told around the campfire that night, with some embellishments.

Tonight will be our last in the Rockies as we head back to civilisation tomorrow. It has been a blast – living in the outdoors and enjoying all kinds of weather and sights. Most wonderful has been the wild life, especially the fury kind. I wish I could smuggle a little black bear home with me – but I know they’re for the wild, not really for cuddling. 

Photo credits: Simon Farmer

Bear essentials in Canada

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“Now this is bear country!”

I’ve become very familiar with this phrase over the past few days. On the one hand it fills me with excitement, especially when we’re travelling in the safety of a vehicle, but in different circumstances it makes my heart race and my eyes scan left and right of the track for any movement. Inevitably I move closer to my hiking companion, who has already told me to “keep up” because I might have to reach for the bear spray!

We arrived in Canada four days ago and after kind friends welcomed us at the airport, we took possession of a camper van. This is a first for us Farmers. We nearly didn’t make it after our bargain flight back was cancelled and then our flight out delayed by 24 hours, but finally we’re here, all set to take on the Canadian Rockies and head into ‘bear country’.

We are camper van virgins so there were things to learn. For a start they’re called RVs here and there’s quite a bit to take in. A tour of the van in light drizzle revealed new lingo, such as ‘grey’ and ‘black’ water, all kinds of shelves and doors containing cupboards and a toilet, plus endless places where even someone my size could bang their head at least 3 times a day – ouch!

After a bemused food shopping trip and a tussle with a faulty air tyre machine, we set off. Only to be assaulted by cupboards flying open and shedding food all over the van as we rounded the first corner out of the carpark! Remember to slot in the bolts – we’re trying!

Bears are something you are constantly aware of in the Rockies. The bins for a start are all bear-proofed to stop them pilfering and there are signs and photos of them everywhere. And I really want to see one… but I’m a tiny bit scared if it happens when we’re out walking.

The first day the sun was trying to break through and we decided to take a stroll up Sulphur Mountain in Banff. I say stroll – it wasn’t. Our hiking pace that started off enthusiastically soon ground to a sensible pace, before moving to a crawl. Older couples with tanned skin and floppy hats strode past and we rested frequently on stone ledges – to let others pass of course!

I wondered about seeing a bear, but all we spotted was a chipmunk (or Canadian Pika). When we reached the top of the cable car we were in desperate need of seats and coffee, but the panoramic views of snowcapped mountains, blankets of forest and winding ribbons of a duck egg blue river made it all worth it.

Having caught our breath we headed down the other side of the mountain and found ourselves the only people on the trail. Going down was a bit of a relief – I honestly don’t think I could have climbed another step at that point. Half an hour down the winding track my fellow hiker announced, 

“Now this is bear country.” And a then few minutes later. 

“Keep your eyes open for movement, if we see one you might have to reach for the bear spray.”

The bear spray looks a bit like a small fire extinguisher and as far as I’m aware doesn’t harm them. It’s pepper so they can’t see to come and gobble you up! Of course they don’t eat people… do they?

“What? what did you see…?”

“Ssh – over there!” It was one of those heart stopping moments.

“It was something orange… not a bear… I just saw it move up ahead.”

Ok so not a bear – no reason to panic yet! Seconds later I also spotted something ginger/looking with a tail slide off a rock ahead. I kept glancing back. There was no one in sight, but I had that feeling I was being watched and maybe followed. Bear eyes glared out from every fallen tree and odd shaped bush.

Suddenly we saw a little face peering at us from behind a rock. It blinked. It had Teddy bear ears and a glistening black nose.

“What is it?”

It was definitely not a bear… it let us move in a take few snaps. It turned out to be a Hoary Marmot- quite large, almost the size of big badger or maybe a tiny bear. But it wasn’t a bear.

The bear watch continued for the next couple of hours and both of us paused frequently to scan the open terrain for signs of movement or listen for munching. In the end the only other wild life we saw was a group of very elegant elk – who gave us the time of day and posed for a photo before resuming their lunch.

It had been a ‘bearless’ day – but I’d loved every minute of it.

Yesterday I spotted a mountain goat on the side of a road, we both said hello to a red squirrel and I stared into the bulbous brown eyes of a white tailed deer a few feet away from me along the banks of a canyon.

But still no bears. Let’s hope they make an appearance before the end of the trip and I survive to tell the tale!