I arrived in Banff National Park with a heart full of doubts and a mind craving escape. Mountains were my sanctuary, every peak and pine felt like an old friend, but somewhere along the way I had lost that spark.
Driving west from Calgary, the flat prairies gave way to silhouettes of the Canadian Rockies rising on the horizon, and I wondered if these peaks could reignite the love I’d lost.
As I entered the park, a wooden sign welcomed me to Banff, Canada’s first national park established in 1885, and the scent of pine on the crisp autumn air immediately stirred something in my soul.
It was late September, and the forest was a patchwork of deep green spruce and bold strokes of gold, the larches were beginning their magical colour conversion into fiery autumn hues.
In that moment, with the road winding into shadowy valleys and sunlight gilding the mountaintops, I felt the mountains call to me once again. I answered with cautious hope, breathing in the fresh mountain air and freedom I had been yearning for.
Dawn in the Valley of Ten Peaks
Before sunrise the next day, I found myself on a shuttle bus rumbling up a narrow mountain road toward Moraine Lake. The darkness slowly turned to blue dawn as we climbed toward the Valley of the Ten Peaks, a place I had seen only in photographs and dreams.
Stepping out at the lake’s edge in the gentle half-light, I was greeted by an almost otherworldly vista: water of an unreal turquoise-blue, perfectly still, cradled by a ring of ten proud summits reflected on its glassy surface.
The scene was so iconic it once even graced the back of the Canadian twenty-dollar bill, yet no image could compare to standing there as the world slowly woke up around me. For a while, I was utterly alone with the lake and mountains. In the silence, broken only by the whisper of a cold breeze, I could hear my own heartbeat.
As the sun’s first rays struck the tips of the peaks, they ignited in hues of rose and gold, casting twin glows in the mirror of the lake. I climbed the short Rockpile Trail – a mere 300-metre path up a moraine that offers one of the most photographed views in Canada – and from the top I watched the day arrive.
The distant bugle of an elk echoed through the stillness from somewhere across the valley, a high, haunting call that hung in the air like a note of longing. In that quiet hour of dawn, the mountains felt alive and listening.
I closed my eyes and let the chill of the alpine morning wash over me, and I realized I was smiling – a small, true smile – for the first time in a long while. The peaceful majesty of that sunrise had gently begun to thaw something inside me.
Enchanted by Moraine Lake’s beauty, I decided to linger and explore further. A well-trod path circles part of the lakeshore, but a sign caught my eye: Larch Valley Trail – 4.3 km. The promise of golden larch forests high above was impossible to resist. I set off on the steep trail that climbs from the lake toward the alpine meadows.
Each step upwards was accompanied by the crunch of gravel and the rhythm of my breath in the cold air. As I gained elevation, the crowds at the lakeshore vanished below and I found myself largely alone among the trees. The trail wound through stands of evergreens until, quite suddenly, I emerged into Larch Valley – and gasped.
The valley was awash in burnished gold, a grove of larch trees in full autumn glory surrounded by the towering Ten Peaks. Sparkling turquoise waters below and a wash of gold around me made for a flawless alpine tableau. I stood in awe as golden needles drifted from the branches, catching the sunlight like tiny sparks. In the thin, cool air up here, my heart pounded not from the climb but from pure exhilaration.
I felt small and infinite all at once – a single soul amid this grand cathedral of rock and light. High above Moraine Lake, with the world stretched before me, I laughed out loud, twirling in a circle with my arms outstretched, the way I might have done as a child. The mountains answered with profound silence, and in that silence I could sense a healing. Each golden larch, each rugged peak seemed to whisper: welcome back.
Lake Louise
After descending from Larch Valley, I traveled on to Lake Louise, only a short drive away. Lake Louise is world-famous – a “crown jewel” of the Rockies known for its vivid turquoise waters set against a backdrop of mountain peaks and the Victoria Glacier – and I worried it might feel touristy and overrun.
By midday, indeed, the main shoreline was bustling with visitors snapping selfies against the postcard-perfect scenery. Rather than join the crowd clustering at the water’s edge, I remembered some advice from a park ranger I met: seek higher ground or a quiet cove to truly meet the lake.
Following a narrow side trail through the trees, I found my way to Fairview Lookout, an overlook perched above the opposite shore. There, I had Lake Louise almost to myself. Far below, the lake lay like a shimmering emerald cupped in the valley, its surface reflecting the surrounding peaks and the hanging glacier above. I learned that the mesmerizing turquoise hue is caused by fine glacial silt – “rock flour” – suspended in the water, refracting sunlight to produce that surreal color.
From my elevated perch, I watched tiny red canoes glide across the lake’s glassy face, leaving gentle ripples that distorted the reflections of Mount Victoria and the Victoria Glacier, which feeds Lake Louise’s waters. The scene was almost too beautiful to be real, like a dream I feared I might wake from.
Feeling inspired, I descended to the lakeshore and decided to experience Lake Louise in the most intimate way possible – by canoe. Soon I was out on the water, the paddle dipping silently into an icy spectrum of blue-green. A quiet canoe ride on Lake Louise with Victoria Glacier looming in the distance.
Each stroke carried me further from shore and the chatter of tourists, into a cathedral of mountains and sky. In the canoe, there was only the soft splash of water and the occasional echoing crack of distant ice calving off the glacier. I paused paddling in the middle of the lake and let the canoe drift. Encircled by peaks and graced by the glacier’s ancient presence, I felt completely alone yet profoundly connected to everything around me.
My fingertips trailed in the glacial water – shockingly cold, as if to remind me that this beauty was carved by ice and time. I gazed down and could see the water shifting from turquoise to emerald and back to blue, depending on the light. It was like staring into the heart of the mountains themselves. In that quiet moment, floating on Lake Louise, I realized the mountains had quietly worked their way back into my heart as well.
The tears that welled in my eyes were not from the cold; they were tears of joy and release. Somehow, the solitude and grandeur of this place had cracked open the shell I’d built around my love for the wild. I knew then that my journey was becoming more than just a trip – it was a healing.
Icefields Parkway
With my spirit lighter and my curiosity piqued, I set out northward along the legendary Icefields Parkway, Alberta’s Highway 93. Often hailed as one of the most beautiful drives on the planet, the parkway promised 232 kilometers of awe. It didn’t disappoint.
The road ribboned through a panorama of soaring rocky peaks, ancient glaciers perched above forested valleys, and rivers the color of liquid sky. Around every bend was another vista that stole my breath – a towering summit wreathed in cloud, a waterfall cascading into a turquoise lake, or a broad valley gilded by late-afternoon sun.
Driving alone with the windows down, I let the crisp mountain air flood in. I played no music; the scenery provided the rhythm and melody. This was a road trip through a masterpiece, and I was both driver and wide-eyed spectator.
I pulled off at a viewpoint for Peyto Lake, eager to stretch my legs. A short walk through thinning evergreens led to an overlook high above the lake. The sight was like a fantasy: Peyto Lake’s waters shone a startling shade of electric blue far below, cradled in a valley of dense pines.
The lake’s shape, like the head of a howling wolf from this angle, only added to its wild allure. A few other travelers quietly snapped photos, but soon moved on, leaving me alone with the view.
High on the ridge, with the wind softly sighing, I felt as if I were gazing into a secret well of the earth’s beauty. No photograph could capture the depth of color and feeling in that moment. I whispered a thank you to no one in particular – or perhaps to the mountains themselves – and carried on.
Further up the parkway I stopped at Bow Lake, where the Crowfoot Glacier clings to the mountainside above. The late afternoon sun painted the glacier in gentle gold and turned the lake’s surface into a mirror. There wasn’t another soul at the quiet picnic area when I arrived.
I walked to the rocky shore and sat down, taking off my boots to dip my weary feet in the frigid water. Shock gave way to numbness, but I welcomed the bite of cold – it made me feel vividly alive. As my feet dangled in that glacial lake and the skyline of peaks reflected around them, I dug into my pack for a small notebook I carry. Words flowed out of me in a stream of consciousness, fragments of poetry and gratitude: “sky-high Rockies… delicate wildflowers… a heart, thawing.”
I wrote about how the wilderness had given me room to breathe, how in these vast landscapes my problems felt small yet manageable. The mountains had a way of putting life into perspective, their immense age and scale a gentle rebuke to my anxieties.
By the time I left Bow Lake, the sun was low and a soft twilight was creeping in. Rather than hurry back, I allowed myself one more indulgence: nightfall on the parkway.
I parked at a safe pullout as darkness settled. Stepping out into the silence, I tilted my head back and was met with a sky brimming with stars. Away from the lights of any town, the Milky Way spilled across the heavens in a dense band of light. The silhouettes of mountain ridges framed the sky, as if cradling the cosmos itself.
In that instant, I felt an overwhelming sense of belonging – a oneness with all of it, from the pinprick stars to the massive peaks rooted in the earth. I realized that the solitude I feared when I set out was actually my greatest gift here. In solitude, the mountains spoke to me in the language of wonder.
Standing under that starry sky along the Icefields Parkway, I whispered into the cold night, “I love you.” It wasn’t directed at any person. It was for the mountains, for the journey, and for the piece of myself that I had found again on this road.
Sulphur Mountain
On my final day in Banff, I sought a literal high point to cap my journey. Sulphur Mountain, which towers above the town of Banff at 2,281 meters (7,486 ft), has long drawn visitors for its panoramic views.
I opted to hike the winding trail to the summit rather than take the gondola, craving one last opportunity to earn my perspective step by step. The trail snaked through a forest of spruce whose fragrance hung in the cool morning.
As I ascended, every turn offered an expanding view of the Bow Valley below: the town of Banff a tiny cluster of buildings, the Bow River glinting in the sun, and Mount Rundle’s unmistakable profile cutting the sky. I passed only a few other hikers, and for long stretches it was just me, the whisper of the wind, and my own footsteps on the switchbacks.
I remembered a quote by John Muir I once loved: “Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.” In the dappled light of that forest trail, I felt those words in my bones.
At the summit, the world opened up in a full 360-degree panorama. Six different mountain ranges spanned the horizon in waves of craggy peaks. I walked along the wooden boardwalk to the historic Cosmic Ray Station site, each step accompanied by a sweeping view of snow-dusted summits and the valley far below.
Standing on the observation deck, I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Below me, Banff spread out like a toy village, and beyond it countless peaks rolled away, an endless sea of stone. Up here, I felt both humbled and uplifted.
The mountains that once intimidated me with their grandeur now felt like familiar companions. I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my face, recalling the moments from the past days: the rose-tinted dawn at Moraine Lake, golden larches quivering in alpine breeze, the serene glide of the canoe on Lake Louise, the starlight over the silent peaks. Each memory was a note in a beautiful melody, a song of a soul reawakening.
In that moment, on top of Sulphur Mountain, I understood that I had indeed fallen back in love with the mountains – deeply, irrevocably. The love was different now than it had been before.
It wasn’t the naive infatuation of a novice climber or the boastful thrill of summiting a peak. It was quieter and richer, born from a conversation with the land itself. Banff’s mountains had been patient with me; they had welcomed me with fog and sun, with silence and birdsong, with challenges and comforts.
They let me grieve what I had lost and celebrate what I had found. They reminded me that wild places have a power to heal that is both gentle and profound. In their silent, steadfast way, these mountains taught me how to be fully present again – how to stand in awe, how to listen, and how to hope.
Epilogue
When I finally descended Sulphur Mountain and made my way back to the town, I felt a pang of bittersweet gratitude. The trip that I thought would be just an escape had become a personal pilgrimage.
Banff had worked a subtle alchemy on me. In a park that greets over four million visitors a year, I managed to find solitude on secluded trails and still dawns, and in that solitude I rediscovered my capacity for wonder.
I came to Banff feeling empty and disconnected, and I am leaving with my heart overflowing – brimming with mountain memories, rekindled passion, and a profound sense of peace.
On my last evening, I wandered to the edge of the Vermilion Lakes as the sun set. The sky burned orange and pink, and Mount Rundle’s reflection lay clearly on the lake’s calm surface. A family of ducks glided by, and somewhere an owl hooted from the pines. I felt the gentle weight of the moment settle around me.
Kneeling, I placed my hand on the cool earth at my feet – a quiet thank you to these wilds. The mountains stood watch in the dying light, their silhouettes strong and reassuring. They needed no reply; their very presence was answer enough.
As I turned to leave, stars were already pricking the sky above Banff’s peaks. I realized I was not the same person who arrived here days ago. The mountains had given me back a piece of myself.
I came to Banff as a skeptic, but I leave as a humbled lover of mountains once more. Banff made me fall in love with mountains again, and in doing so, it helped me find my way back to myself.
Sources: The extraordinary scenery and natural features of Banff described above are well-documented. Lake Louise’s famous turquoise hue comes from fine glacial rock flour suspended in the water.
Both Lake Louise and Moraine Lake are nestled among towering peaks and glaciers – Lake Louise beneath the Victoria Glacier, and Moraine Lake in the Valley of the Ten Peaks, an image so iconic it once appeared on Canada’s $20 bill.
The Icefields Parkway between Banff and Jasper is indeed celebrated as one of the world’s most scenic drives, a 232-km journey past soaring peaks and icefields. For those seeking quieter experiences, Parks Canada and local guides recommend visiting popular spots at sunrise and exploring lesser-known trails like Fairview Lookout at Lake Louise.
Banff’s larch season in autumn is brief but breathtaking, with alpine larches turning a brilliant gold in mid-to-late September – a spectacle I was fortunate to witness in Larch Valley. Sulphur Mountain’s summit boardwalk offers 360° panoramas of the Bow Valley and surrounding ranges, a fitting place to reflect on Banff’s wonders.
Every fact affirmed what my heart now knows: Banff National Park is a place of healing beauty and timeless mountain grandeur, where it’s all too easy to rediscover a lost love for the mountains.