The stories about his exploits, embellished or not, are sure to lure even the most indifferent bystander into the mystique that is Bill Peyto. There’s the one where he walked into a Banff bar with a live lynx strapped to his back, sending the patrons running for the exits and giving Peyto the place to himself. Or the winter he raised two orphaned cougar kittens in one of his secluded cabins so they wouldn’t perish. Or how he would regularly leave clients alone for the night during outfitting expeditions so he could have some solitude. It was his need for privacy and seclusion that drove him deeper into the wilderness, where he could coexist with the natural world instead of the man-made one that was rapidly developing around him. Peyto erected several cabins in the Healy Creek area of Banff National Park, where he could be alone and maintain his other interests, such as trapping, prospecting and mining.
Several years ago, I learned at least one of Peyto’s cabins was still standing, hidden away from the public, as Peyto himself had intended. I’m not referencing his fully restored cabin that sits on the grounds of the Whyte Museum but rather a cabin that remains exactly as it was when Peyto left it for the final time. I immediately started researching, hoping to uncover the location, but like surviving a harsh winter in the Canadian backcountry, finding the cabin proved exceedingly difficult.
Google searches only revealed veiled references to the cabin’s existence; nothing was concrete in terms of an actual location. Discouraged but not defeated, I turned to word-of-mouth tactics and began talking with folks who knew about the cabin and some who had even been there. Despite my best efforts, I was only able to uncover the fact that the cabin truly does exist and that it was in the vicinity of Simpson Pass. It appeared that the cabin’s location was a closely guarded secret; without specific details, searching that vast, forested area would be the equivalent of looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. I didn’t give up entirely on standing in Peyto’s forgotten cabin, but my hopes were diminishing rapidly.
A few years passed and my plans went into hibernation until I caught a break one summer. As the outdoor editor for a Calgary publication, I was invited to Sunshine Meadows for a media-day program they were hosting. Our guide for the day, Alex, was supplied by White Mountain Adventures and knew of Peyto’s cabin but hadn’t actually been there himself. He, too, was interested in finding the elusive cabin, so we joined forces, gathering intel from a variety of places. One of the biggest pieces of the puzzle came in the form of a cryptic, eight-line poem written by Jim Deegan, a guest of Peyto’s at the cabin, which he refers to as “Bookrest.” The poem describes the cabin using obscure references to the area, loosely hinting at its secret location.
“On Simpson Pass,
atop the Divide,
among the yellow tamarack
stands a cabin in a meadow,
a lone prospector’s shack.
Weathering in the elements,
abandoned in the vale,
a sod-roofed fortress, built
beside an old packtrail.”
Armed with the poem and a rough map indicating the cabin’s approximate location within a large circle, Alex and I put boots on the ground and set off in search of Peyto’s mysterious cabin. On a typical day, the stunning hike towards Simpson Pass would have been reward enough, but the prospect of finally finding Bookrest was all-consuming.
We began our search as the sun sat low in the sky, making several passes through dense forest, always remaining within auditory contact of each other. I expected to see the cabin around every corner, but we kept coming up empty-handed. Although we observed evidence of previous human existence in the area, such as hand-sawn tree stumps, the cabin continued to elude us. With hunger panging our stomachs like a drum, we decided to refuel and refocus while appreciating an unmatched view of the Monarch.
Once our bellies were full, we took another look at the map and the poem, hoping to uncover additional clues that we’d originally missed. We formulated a new plan and again set off into the forest. Quicker than either of us had imagined, we stumbled upon an overgrown trail that obviously hadn’t been used in quite some time. With rekindled enthusiasm, we hurried down the trail, hoping we were finally on the right one. The old trail was so overrun with brush that eventually it became impassable. We split up, one going left, one right, to search for a way around the barrier. As if by some coincidence, while checking in with each other, we both stopped mid-sentence and stared off into the distance, trying to process what we were seeing. Tucked away in a stand of larch and pine, scarcely visible from our respective locations, sat the ramshackle remains of Bill Peyto’s Bookrest cabin. We had found it! Just by laying eyes on this obscure refuge, we had joined a select fraternity with very few members.
Eager to thoroughly explore the cabin’s derelict remains, but hyper-aware of the rapidly fading daylight, we made the most out of the short time we allotted ourselves at the cabin. As our time expired and we began hiking back to the trailhead, I couldn’t help but smile.
My ambitious search for the colourful character that was Bill Peyto had ended. This pioneer of the wilderness, who made the mountains his home and worked hard to maintain an isolated lifestyle, just had the curtains pulled back on a small part of his mysterious existence. My venture was not out of disrespect but out of curiosity and an inquisitiveness to learn more about the man and how he prospered in a very different time. Don’t worry, Bill, your secret is safe with me.
—by Tyler Dixon, Calgary, Alberta
Epic Winter Race
Battling extreme conditions, endurance racers celebrate human resilience
In February of each year since 2012, men and women gather in the dead of winter to bike or run 130 kilometres through unforgiving temperatures, brutal winds and the wild and barren landscapes of southern Manitoba.
The Actif Epica race was started by local sportsman Ian Hall after he realized that a winter ultra-marathon could be created right here in Manitoba with a unique urban finish. Before Actif Epica, local ultra-marathoners had to travel to Minnesota, North Dakota and other places to compete. Ian’s idea utilized the historic Crow Wing Trail, a trading route previously used by Manitoba’s Indigenous peoples and early settlers. This event now draws participants from as far away as Delaware, Colorado and California.
The race starts 130 kilometres south of Winnipeg in St. Malo, Manitoba, and routes through St-Pierre-Jolys, the Crystal Springs Hutterite colony, Niverville and St. Adolphe, ending at the historic Forks in Winnipeg. Each town has washrooms, food, water and hot/cold drinks for the racers, plus a warm place to meet and get checked by safety staff. It’s also during these stops that racers greatly appreciate the help and encouragement from the volunteers.
I’m a local city bus driver and community journalist and I wanted to cover the event like an embedded journalist. I have been involved in running, cycling and duathlons for a few years, but only in a recreational capacity. To train properly for the event, I ran 16 kilometres every other day in up to –45ºC temperatures and completed one long 45-kilometre run in the cold just a week prior to the race. I also took part in the pre-race “recon ride” in which we ran or biked 32 kilometres and tested our equipment. I estimate that my gear weighed about 18 to 22 kilograms. I took more than most people, including snowshoes, which I didn’t end up needing. I also had my camera and a few extra items, because the army taught me not to scrimp when it comes to survival equipment!
“Runners have half an hour until the start,” announced one of the race directors, Dwayne Sandall. He oversaw the runners, checking that everyone was alert and physically able to tackle the day. There were 15 of us runners and almost 50 cyclists who were starting an hour later. Some participants were the high-performance types, and others were regular people like myself—just active citizens. There were some people trying out different ways to race, like cross-country skiing and relay teams. A local Hutterite female competitor showed up to the start wearing a gorgeous traditional dress. And I thought I was tough!
I saw that Ryan was starting to limp about 24 kilometres into the race, so I told him I was going to go ahead. It was daylight and the weather was good. Around 40 kilometres into the race, blizzard conditions appeared. My hands were getting terribly cold, so I took off a glove to get out a chemical warmer pack—the muscle in between my fingers was firming up, like thawing steak. I was scared by what was happening at first, but thankful when the chemical pack began generating heat.
Twenty minutes later, I saw another runner heading in the other direction, back to Crystal Springs, holding his frozen hand in his glove. He had to drop out.
At the halfway point, I entered the Niverville Arena, where everyone cheered every time a racer entered. While resting there, I dropped out and then re-entered the race, thanks to the encouragement from a volunteer. Ryan appeared, and we agreed to continue together and finish the race. Off we went.
A few hours later, though, Ryan’s foot was getting worse. How he managed to make it to that point, I have no idea. My body temperature was dropping steadily and we had to keep moving to stay warm.
When we arrived at the second-to-last checkpoint, the University of Manitoba, Tom from the safety staff checked Ryan’s feet. Ryan had no choice but to drop out, but as he did so, he encouraged me to continue on. I was very sad, but at least he was in no danger.
Towards the end of the race, shuffling through the night, I was worried I wouldn’t make the 25-hour limit. Fast runners do the event in 17 hours; normal people in around 22. The tracks of the cyclists and fast runners had already been blown away, so the moonlight reflected off a smooth sea of snow. With the light on my head, I looked and felt like an astronaut exploring another planet.
I bumped into two female runners who were out on the Riverwalk for a short run. After they took a look at me, one of them said, “Are you in Epica? Still?” It turned out that one of the women had a son in the event and was thinking of entering next year. I told her to bring hand warmers.
I was the very last person to finish the race, arriving at the table to receive my snowflake medal at 24 hours and 45 minutes. It was just before sunrise when I left St. Malo and it was sunrise when I arrived in Winnipeg. What a spiritual experience. At one point in the race, I don’t know why, but I started crying. I wasn’t feeling any pain and there was nobody around me. I was by myself. I was living. I was free.
—by Gregory McNeill, Winnipeg, Manitoba
The Motorcycle Diaries
Passion for the open road and cross-country adventures
As I write this, it is –20˚C and my motorcycle—a Yamaha Roadstar Canadian Special Edition—is under wraps in the garage, ready to go as soon as spring arrives. So I am dreaming of sun, pavement and two-wheeled trips. I have been riding for 40 years and will ride until I can no longer hold my bike up.
Motorcycle riding is a passion that has taken me many places in Canada. I have ridden, on different trips, from British Columbia to Newfoundland and through much of the United States. For the most part, I ride alone: just me, my motorcycle and the open highway. Not that I would mind riding with others, but as a solo rider I only have one bladder and one gas tank to consider.
Why do I ride? With riding comes pleasure, fear, exhilaration and relaxation. When I ride, I have a sense of freedom, a sense of being on the open road with no “cage” around me. It’s hard to explain if you have never ridden a motorcycle. It’s like trying to understand why the dog likes to hang his head out of the car window.
Riding is a banquet for all of the senses. I have feasted my eyes on magnificent scenery from the Rocky Mountains and the hoodoos in Alberta to the fields of wheat and canola in the Prairie provinces and the lowlands along the St. Lawrence River, and from the flower pots at the Bay of Fundy to the cliffs at Bonavista.
I can smell everything from the cow manure when the barns are cleaned in the eastern counties of Quebec to the wild roses in Alberta. Then there’s the honeysuckle in bloom and the pine trees in the Acadian forest of Nova Scotia, the fresh bread from the local boulangerie and the crispness of the approaching fall in northern Ontario. I also love the smell of salty ocean air as you ride around the Bay of Fundy, the mushroom farms in Manitoba and the large feedlots in Saskatchewan. Of course, there’s nothing like the smell of rain in the air before it actually starts.
I sense every nuance of the weather. Temperatures change dramatically when riding up one mountain range and down the other. While riding through the Rockies from Jasper to Cranbrook, I made multiple stops to put on extra clothing and then remove that clothing.
Once, over Canada Day weekend, it was so cold and windy along Lake Superior to Sault Ste. Marie, I wore four layers of clothes! I notice slight temperature drops while riding along a tree-lined road, such as the one near Black River, Ontario, or towards Sandbanks Provincial Park. It is much appreciated during the midsummer heat waves.
Wearing so many layers of protective clothing has its advantages and disadvantages. It keeps you warm and somewhat protected from the elements. Outfitted in long johns, jeans, chaps, a sweatshirt and a jacket—and covered entirely by a rainsuit—feels bulky but helps keep me warm and dry. I have ridden in rainstorms where everything was wet by the end of the day.
I meet the greatest people while travelling on a motorcycle. I met a fellow rider on the ferry from Prince Edward Island to New Brunswick and we rode together for three days. As we parted ways, I realized I only knew his first name and the state he came from. While riding through Alberta, I stopped for a gas break and as I paid inside the service station, I noticed half a dozen retirement-age cowboys sitting with their cups of coffee. I was asked where I was from, where I was going and warned that I should be carrying a gun. In Godbout waiting for a ferry, I was questioned as to why I ride alone, as it is considered much too dangerous for a woman.
In the over 150,000 kilometres I’ve covered, I only once wondered what the heck I was doing. In Newfoundland, it was day eight of riding in the rain. I’d enjoyed a beautiful ride through the Avalon Peninsula under overcast skies. Midday saw the start of rain. As I made my way back to St. John’s, I stopped at more than a dozen motels only to discover there was no vacancy. It was well past dark and I had been on the road for 12 hours with more than 800 kilometres under my belt. As I parked under an overpass to get out of the rain, I lamented ever having ridden to this godforsaken land and thought I would never get dry again. I picked myself up and kept riding. Within an hour, I rode into a truck stop near Whitbourne and walked into a combination motel, grocery store and gas station. As I stood in the foyer with water streaming from my clothing, the receptionist said, “Oh, me love, you need a room!” I was treated royally, with my room beside the laundry so I could dry everything. I will definitely be going back to this great province.
As a rider, I am never 100 percent relaxed, nor am I a nervous rider. I have to look ahead, behind and at my dash and be prepared for anything on the road. I am on the watch for other vehicles and animals that can step in front of me. British Columbia came complete with herds of wild mountain sheep to navigate around. Near the Saint John River in New Brunswick, I encountered a bear! Moose abound in New Brunswick and Newfoundland. I am always on alert for wildlife.
You hear nothing but white noise while riding—the wind, your bike and the world around you combine in musical harmony. Your brain tries to make sense of outside sounds such as airplanes, other vehicles, dogs barking and the crash of ocean waves and distinguish one from the other. Until, that is, you relax and it all turns into a kind of music you have never heard before.
One of my absolute favourite rides is on new pavement. There’s nothing like the thrill of riding on freshly blackened road with the fragrance of asphalt wafting up. Corners and hills are ano
ther favourite—discovering what is around the bend or on the other side. The route around Quebec’s Gaspésie has roads with steep inclines as compared to the Prairie provinces, where, thanks to the straight roads, you can see for miles.
I have been lost. I have been turned around and gone the wrong way. I have agonized about oil drips. I have fretted that the next gas stop may be too far away. I have asked myself why I drank that extra mug of tea. I have voiced my displeasure at not having the weight to trigger stop lights. I have lamented over the weather.
There comes a point when you no longer focus on the details of riding and you become one with your bike. I glide around corners and up and over mountains while shifting my weight slightly, countersteering and changing gears. I am in total harmony with the world.
I love the freedom and excitement, the clearing of the mind and leaving all the stress of life behind. Motorcycle riding is a romance that comes with the twist of the throttle. I challenge myself. I learn something new every day. It never fails to bring a smile to my face. Riding motorcycles is my passion.
—by Anne Hagerman, Picton, Ontario
Grand Manan, New Brunswick
A mother-daughter duo go cliff-edge camping
My daughter, Julie, and I have been taking a mother-daughter summer vacation for more than 20 years. Sometimes it is only a long weekend, but we always find a way to make it happen. Tenting has become something we love doing together. It satisfies us both on so many levels. We cocoon when the weather is bad, meditate, read, listen to music, walk on the beach, enjoy nature and try to get some painting in. We always choose a place near a beach, which is not hard to do when you live on the East Coast.
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