Because the short way is boring

Our next big goal was Glacier and Yoho National Parks, sitting at the far north end of the valley we’d been zigzagging through. Technically, we could’ve made it there in less than a day. But what’s the fun in that? Straight highways are for people in a hurry — and we are very much not those people. So, we ditched the highway and pointed Marcel up a dirt road that unraveled into a massive spiderweb of gravel tracks. The view down into the smoky valley below was hazy and dramatic, and the surrounding hoodoo formations looked like alien art projects gone right.

We’d only been at it an hour before we started spotting places we’d marked on the map. Canada hides a ridiculous number of gems — some official recreation sites, others just “nobody’s claimed this spot yet” kind of camps. We weren’t worried about finding a place to stay; we just wanted the place — that magic combo of solitude, scenery, and Starlink signal. Over the next week we hopped from lake to lake, river to river, and occasionally into a proper campground when convenience won over our inner wildlings. Marcel handled the maze of logging roads like a champ — well, mostly.

Early in the week, after leaving a peaceful lake behind, we were cruising a narrow two-track toward our next marked spot. Morning light filtered through smoky air, painting everything a deep orange — stunning. Until the road suddenly jumped three feet uphill. Three feet. That’s it. But to Marcel, abrupt inclines like that are his kryptonite. Any sharper and his rear bumper drags like a plow. I wanted to build a ramp out of rocks and dirt — an engineering masterpiece. Kerri, ever the voice of reason, pointed out it was a half-hour backtrack to an alternate route. I grumbled but agreed. Stuck on a three-foot mound would’ve been… let’s call it humbling.

A few days later, somewhere northbound, we stumbled into what looked like an old mining town — half ghost, half alive. A few buildings still standing, maybe even occupied. We didn’t linger. Just enough time for a couple of photos and to check that the road ahead was actually a road. It was, technically. But “road” might be generous. The dirt turned to three inches of fine powdery silt — like driving through a snowdrift made of dust. And of course, that’s when a logging truck appeared, charging toward us like an angry rhinoceros. Those guys don’t slow down. Ever. I swerved right, hugging the edge, and the beast roared by at 30 mph, smothering us in a blinding dust cloud. We sat there for a full two minutes waiting for the world to reappear. We are still finding dust in places I didn’t know existed.

Somewhere later that week, while camping at yet another lake, we met a local who leaned against his truck and said, “You should be able to make it to my favorite lake.” Should. Not will. Should. Naturally, we went. The “road” started as a dirt lane and quickly devolved into what I can only describe as a goat track. Bushes clawed at both sides of Marcel, pinstriping him like a tiger. Rocks got bigger, turns got tighter, and the forest seemed to close in. We crept forward in 4-low, every branch screeching along the paint.

And then, like magic, the trees opened up. There it was — a small, pristine lake, mirror-still, framed by mountains. Just big enough for us and the loons. Leveling Marcel took some creative stump engineering, but once we settled in, we knew this was the spot. The effort, the scratches, the slow crawl — all of it worth it.

The final adventure on our radar was the Lead Queen Mine Road — a gnarly 3.5-mile climb to a high-mountain meadow with teal-blue lakes. The dream. But the fine print? One-lane the whole way, no turnarounds, no passing, no forgiveness. Fallen tree? You’re done. Two hairpin turns so tight even short-wheelbase Jeeps need three-point maneuvers. We wanted it bad, but realism won. After chatting with a local 4×4 group online, we admitted we just weren’t equipped for that level of stupid. No chainsaw, no radio, no backup plan. Tempting fate is one thing; courting disaster is another. So we passed on it — reluctantly, responsibly, and maybe a little proud of ourselves for not being total idiots. There’s always next time.

A few more pictures;