Well, plans change
By the time we rolled out of the backcountry and into the bright lights (okay, dim glow) of Golden, we’d already made a call: skip Glacier National Park. With our Canadian time running short, we decided to focus on heading south instead of fighting crowds for a parking space and an overpriced souvenir magnet. Yoho National Park would be our grand finale — a single-night stay, one last mountain fix before turning toward the border.
As expected, the campground was full. But that never stops us. We pulled up anyway and played our favorite card: the “any cancellations by chance?” game. And as usual, we scored. One night, one spot, perfectly fine. We took a stroll across the nearby river, soaking in that National Park polish — groomed trails, postcard-perfect views, and bear droppings so fresh they could’ve been warm. Nature’s little reminders to stay alert.
The next morning, we broke camp early to climb into the mountains above. There’s a waterfall up there — a big, famous one — the kind people line up for. The advice online was clear: arrive before 9 a.m. or forget about parking. We listened for once and made it in time. And yes, it was exactly as promised — thunderous, misty, and worth every step. Big waterfalls rarely disappoint.
Our next plan was a hike around a nearby lake, but as soon as we turned off the highway, an electronic sign greeted us: “PARKING LOT FULL.” At 9 a.m. sharp. Not even kidding. So much for that.
Back in the van, we did what we do best: changed plans. Instead of crossing east over Yoho and down the other side of the Rockies, we decided to double back west — where the real fun lives. More dirt roads, more space, more mystery. We found one road near the bottom of Yoho that snaked south through Kootenay National Park — a proper “hail-mary” dirt road that could carry us most of the way to the U.S. border.
A few miles in, the washboard rattled our teeth and our patience. We passed a recreation area overlooking Wapta Falls, and Kerri was quick to hint, “We could just stay here…” But Marcel and I were on the same team and had more votes: forward motion. Twenty dusty miles later, the map showed something promising…
Marion Lake. The place was perfect. Free, quiet, and somehow all ours. Just down the road, an earthen boat launch tempted us, but signs said no camping, so we respected it. The lake shimmered like liquid sapphire — honestly the bluest water we’d seen in all of Canada. It was so clear it felt like peering through the sky itself. Tiny fish darted around our feet, eating mosquitoes we swatted and dropped on the surface. For the first time in my life, I found myself wishing for more mosquitoes.
The next morning we hit the road again, winding south past Kootenay Crossing and Paul Creek Rec Sites. Lake after lake blurred by — I swear we’d hit the hundredth when it happened. A gate. Not your average “please don’t enter” gate either — this one came with an entire mood: PRIVATE PROPERTY. VIDEO SURVEILLANCE. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. And to really drive it home, a few bleached animal skulls hanging nearby.
We paused. Debated. Looked at each other. For a solid minute, I thought we might roll the dice. But reason (and maybe a hint of fear) won out. We turned Marcel around, headlights glinting off the warning signs, tails between our legs. The final dirt road had beaten us — but it made for one hell of a story.
