I was 13.

It was July and my family was on our annual summer vacation that year in Banff National Park, Alberta. We strolled the shore of world-renowned Lake Louise; no matter how many times I’d seen it—and at that age, I’d already seen it a lot, as the Rockies were my father’s favourite travel destination—I always marvelled at how pristine the snow-capped peaks and aqua-green water were. In colour and scale, it was such a contrast from my home on the prairies. After some admiration, my father wanted to take my childhood dog, a loyal border collie named Pepper, for a longer walk while my mother and I window-shopped the boutiques in the hotel. We verbally agreed to meet in an hour or so.

The “or so” turned out to be half a day later. My father and Pepper went on a very long walk to a mountain-top tea house.

I always remembered his stories of this hike. His wonder at the vistas and of hearing an avalanche rumble in the distance. Also, the exertion required by him (and my dog) to complete the loop. I was never much into hiking in my youth but as an adult, immersion in the forest is a favoured pastime. So this year, a special year, I was determined to retrace his steps and also climb to that fabled tea house in the sky.