Subliminal messages

Let no one say, and
Say to your shame
That there was only beauty
Before you came.

On a simple wooden sign, these words greeted my friend Megan and I along the lake path. We didn’t have much time until we had to leave, but we both stopped. More than a “Have a nice hike” sign, this one dared us to consider its message. I looked around at the neatly designed, unassuming cabins to our right. They looked like little settlements pledging allegiance to the greater mountains flanking them. To my left, Oesa Mountain loomed large, with the sparkling glacial blue Lake O’Hara at its foot. Megan and I agreed. Despite the human modifications around the lake, the ancestral beauty before us had lost none of its charm.

***

Brennan had been talking about Lake O’Hara for months. He had worked in this secluded lakeside lodge and campground for the past couple of years. Located 30 km past Lake Louise and just past the B.C. border, Lake O’Hara is “one of the best places in the world,” in his opinion. Convinced by his testimonial, we eagerly drove out to see it for ourselves.
We spent a night in Banff, awaiting a confirmatory phone call from him to instruct us when to come up. O’Hara was booked solid; we could only hope for a cancellation.
Early Saturday morning, we got an excited phone call from our host. Premature September snow had driven away some clients. We were in.
In anticipation of the 3:30 bus that would take us from ground level up to Lake O’Hara, nestled in the mountains, we moseyed around downtown Banff for a few hours. Banff Avenue was under construction, making the town look like a fake stage set out of a Lars von Trier film. Of course, the narrow slivers of sidewalk along the boutiques urged tourists to shop anyway, and shop they did. We glided along with the movie extras, assuaged by our ice creams and the knowledge that we wouldn’t be here long. Eventually, the stage set gave way to the park by the river, where poised marathon runners hurtled themselves at us in droves. We drifted toward a group playing West African drums to keep the runners going. As we neared them, they began packing up, giving bored looks and blase answers to our eager questions about their music.
We were anxious to get out of Dodge. After pouring some protective libations in front of and behind my car, we tore out of town onto Highway 1. An hour and a crossed Alberta-B.C. border later, we spotted the brown and yellow sign to O’Hara, the until-now mystical place. We parked our car, grabbed our backpacks, and headed toward the empty yellow school bus, waiting to take us up the hill. Despite being the only two passengers on the bus, the driver gladly drove us up, talking about the latest weather and the large snowflakes coming down all around us. The bus felt like a moving bubble launching us through a portal. Already, Banff seemed worlds away.
At the top of the hill, we finally met Brennan, whose excitement came through in his use of superlatives. We followed him onto the trail paralleling the lake toward a lone bench. He brought out three steaming thermoses of tea, and we sat and drank amidst whirling snowflakes.
“We’re going to hike up Oesa,” he said conspiratorially, motioning to the mountain on our right. Our teacups seemed so trivial compared to this enormous, pot-bellied mountain.
“I’m so glad you guys are gonna get to see this!” Brennan exclaimed. “It’s gonna be epic.” As he led the way, his long, expectant strides had the air of someone doing this hike for the first time.
The snow gradually built into a white-out as we hiked up Oesa, but the view was still astounding. I had to stop a few times to give my eyes a chance to fully believe what they were seeing. Further up, the path became less evident amidst remnants of a rock slide. I half expected to see Frodo and Samwise scrambling up the rocks ahead of us. Finally, we reached the top of Oesa, sweating and soaked by wet snow.
As we stood in silence, I realized there was an infinite number of vantage points from which to take in these mountains, this unbelievable scenery. I flashed back to an old Sociology of Art class, where frustrated students had clamoured, “What is the sublime?” And here it was, that overwhelming experience of seeing without grasping. These mountains were beyond my understanding.

***

Megan and I left the wooden sign behind us enjoy our last glimpse of Lake O’Hara. But the sign’s message was everywhere. Around us, the mountains sat wisely on the knowledge of their unconquerability. Whereas the people in Banff seemed to view the mountains only as a pleasant, benign backdrop for their vastly more important lives, the view here forbade such dismissive attitudes. Looking up to these dangerous beauties revealed nothing less than the truest expression of the sublime.