Numerous signs had warned us not to camp anywhere on the eastern side of the lake, a warning that we’d see unheeded by several backpackers later in the day. On the southern side of the lake, two tents already adorned the coastline, and one party had even shunned a perfect campsite to pitch their tent in the open, scant yards from the water. We headed for a wooded slope to the west of the lake, where our eventual campsite overlooked not just the lake, but a boisterous cascade in the stream emptying Iceberg Lake far above us into Ediza. The cascade and its myriad rapids, each a gem in a dazzling jeweled necklace, would become the object of our adoration at sunset, in the dark of the night, and at first light the next morning.
A backpacking trip isn’t just a journey from point A to point B, it’s not a race to the finish, and it’s certainly not a list of lakes and landmarks one visits during the trip. It’s the time you spend in the wilderness, surrounded only by the sounds of the wind through the trees, water gurgling downstream, the chirping of birds, and the scrambling of chipmunks and marmots. It’s solitude so precious, that even the most distant, but sufficiently loud, conversation is felt as an infringement, an unnecessary addition to the tableau. Downtime, whether it’s spent basking in the sun, reading a book, or just lounging idly in the cool shadow of evergreens, is perhaps as precious as the hike itself, and something I look forward to at the end of each day’s journey.