The Mountains Have Names

In the Canadian Rockies, every mountain has a name.

Mount Rundle. Mount Norquay. Cascade Mountain.

Learning their names. Then forgetting them.

It did not matter.

Banff is a town. Also a feeling.

The town has hotels. Restaurants. Tourists.

The feeling has silence. Space. Air so clean it hurts.

Coming for the town. Staying for the feeling.

Lake Louise is famous. Crowded. Beautiful.

Going at sunrise. Having it to myself for twenty minutes.

The water is glass. The mountains reflect perfectly.

A beaver swims across. Does not look up. Does not need to.

Both knowing who belongs there.

The Icefields Parkway is 232 kilometers of yes.

Yes, that glacier is that blue.

Yes, that waterfall is that high.

Yes, that view is real.

Stopping seventeen times in one day.

The seventeenth time, a ranger pulls over.

"You see bear."

"Where?"

"There."

Pointing. A grizzly. Eating berries. Unbothered.

Watching for an hour. The bear never looks up.

Jasper is quieter than Banff. Fewer people. More space.

Meeting a couple from Toronto. Retired. Traveling in an RV.

"How long?"

"Six months."

"Planning to stop?"

The woman laughs. "Why would we stop?"

Good question.

Hiking the Skyline Trail. Four days. Backpack too heavy.

The first night, questioning every decision.

The second night, the body adjusts.

The third night, understanding.

The fourth night, not wanting to leave.

Leaving the Rockies with a camera full of photos.

And a heart full of something else.

Something without a name.

Like the mountains.

Like the lakes.

Like the feeling that some places change you.

Even if you cannot explain how.