July 9th, 3:30 p.m.
The town alarm sounded with urgency in Jasper National Park. The Maligne Valley was on fire!
The ensuing wildfire, evacuations, and the subsequent road and trail closures promoted a frenzy of organization and rallying of highly trained personnel, all racing to the fire with sirens screaming. Incredible images of the wildfire, called Excelsior, dominated and enthralled all media and Facebook pages.
August
The smoke, flames and panic of Excelsior are now park history; we鈥檝e all gone up the Maligne Road to marvel at the changes a hot wildfire is capable of creating. There have been updates and stories about the impacts on wildlife, and who will be the next birds and bugs to move in, as well as the feel good Medicine Lake eaglet story, the goldeneye鈥攁 duck that was found shell shocked鈥攚andering on the road and reuniting with his family, new green shoots of grass already sprouting and the incredible skill of the tree fellers.
This was all interesting, and yes fascinating. Sure, we all were inconvenienced for awhile, but all my thoughts were about the Watchtower Trail, that鈥檚 all I cared about. What would it look like? How far up did the fire go? Is the poor Watchtower Trail, that鈥檚 now on JNP鈥檚 decommissioning list, doomed even further?
Finally, with my trail heart racing, and rivulets of anxious anticipation running down my spine, I set out to find the now ash cold truth among the charred remains of Excelsior.
Parking lot jitters attacked me from all angles as I sprayed on bug repellant and laced up my running shoes. It was time. A sort of weird battle-lust fogged my eyes as I left the parking lot to descend down the Maligne River, where a relic from another age was stoically lying in the middle of the river, a large galvanized piece of culvert that was one of the main supports for the Watchtower Bridge swept away in the floods of 2012.
A flicker of yellow caught my eye. I thought to myself, 鈥測eah, that survived.鈥� A yellow trail diamond still bravely marks the path. I ran, but I was barely moving, my steps in a kind of quicksand, a bizarre reluctance to know what鈥檚 around a few corners of the familiar old, overgrown bush. My nostrils twitched at the faint smell of fire. Then WHAM! I was swept into an alternate reality, a black realm of incineration.
The trail quicksand thickened around my shoes, I almost fell on my face. I gawked in amazement at the scene that encapsulated me; I was a microscopic bug on the skeleton of some alien creature. There was no hair, no skin, just boney protuberances of burnt terrain and monolithic boulders. I crept along, my trail eyes widening at the sight of charred black encrusted trees, with no branches, no green, just tall black explanation marks, with roots below, exposed and raw.
Underfoot was black crusty moss with a remarkable amount of spring.
My pace increased once the shock of first contact wore off. The black snake of a trail curved its way up now unfamiliar terrain, along blatant past efforts of ditching and culverts from JNP鈥檚 trail crew.
Then, like blowing a fuse, it all changed back to the green planet Earth. It was back to the familiar trail that hikers and skiers have been using for decades, for day hike use, overnight, or as an alternative to get up to the mighty Skyline Trail.
Early skiers from the 1930s skinned and horse sledded up to snowfields of the Watchtower Basin and to Maligne Lake via Shangrila Cabin. Evidence of well built sections can still be seen, compliments of the Lovat Scouts (a Scottish regiment that trained in high mountain warfare during the Second World War).
By now my trail mind was buzzing like a horsefly seeking flesh, with new trail use ideas swirling in Neapolitan excitement鈥攏ew ski lines and up tracks with no bush to bash through, open terrain, new snowshoe opportunities, half-day fire interpretation hikes, or bike rides to the open meadow at 5.6 kms, creating a bike hike combo.
We can reincarnate the whole philosophy of the Watchtower Trail.
Then I saw it! Something was moving in the ash, under the roots of a large black tree. I could see a head of something crested with feathers. I realized it was a bizarre looking bird. The thing pulled itself out of the white grave, stretched up to a great height, spread its wings and shook like a wet dog, twigs and soot flying in all directions, as I turned and covered my eyes.
When I turned back to look, there it was, a phoenix, a bird of indescribable beauty, preening its gold and crimson feathers with a large curved beak.
Spotting a caribou is something pretty special, but a phoenix obtains new life by rising from the ashes, renewed and restored after suffering apparent annihilation.
The strange looking bird and I locked eyes; his message went through my arteries like electricity. I almost reeled on my feet as his message of 鈥渞eborn idealism, hope and the freshness of youth鈥� overwhelmed my body.
I watched as the phoenix took elegant flight. I shaded my eyes against the intense rays of the sun, and watched until the speck disappeared over Medicine Lake. Energized, and absolutely regenerated, I boogied down the Watchtower Trail, the phoenix鈥檚 message giving me hope for the trail鈥檚 future.
Loni Klettl
Special to the 51暗网
