In Admiration of Hazel and Margo (Lessons from the Trail)

Words and photos by Tyler Weber

Last summer, I had the idea to take two of my three daughters on an overnight bikepacking adventure. Hazel, being seven and with some bikepacking experience under her belt, felt up to the challenge. So, we sat down together and decided on a short but steep and chunky trail in Jasper National Park called the Celestine Lake Trail. I’ve tried to get Hazel out on a dad-daughter epic at least once a summer since she was little, and with Margo being three, I figured she should join us this time around. With Hazel now riding a 24” rigid mountain bike, I thought the trail would be manageable. Margo would be riding shotgun with me on my Surly Bridge Club.

I planned to get an early start, allowing us to take our time, but things don’t always play out as intended. As can happen with kids, we got out the door late, and by the time we set up camp for my wife Kate and our nine-month-old, it was after 2 p.m. With bikes loaded and a few adjustments made, we hit the trail closer to 3 p.m. I knew we would be pushing our luck, but I never anticipated that we wouldn’t have much luck to push from the very start.

Two kilometers into the ride, my bike’s rear tire exploded off the bead, spraying sealant and broken dreams all over my legs and bags. Since I was carrying almost everything for all three of us, the bike was overloaded in the rear, and I had put in too much air to compensate for the sagging rear tire. The tubeless setup couldn’t handle it. Right away, Hazel suggested we turn back. I told her it was a minor setback and that after we threw in a tube, we would be off and rolling.

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With a quick tube install and a useless attempt to pull the already-drying sealant out of my leg hair, we were rolling again. After that, things moved smoothly for a few kilometers. There was much to see, as this road was the same road a wildfire had ripped through last season. The forest was a world the girls and I had experienced many times before but never like this. Witnessing Mother Nature’s power—her ability to destroy and then effortlessly redeliver an abundance of green back to the forest floor—was incredible. It was a great opportunity to discuss what nature and the planet mean to us. The destruction evoked emotion in Hazel, and I could see nature’s impact on my daughter as we rode alongside each other. It was a proud and happy moment for me knowing I was giving her this experience.

After about an hour of making slow progress, as you do when bikepacking with a seven-year-old, the gradients started to kick up. If I’d been alone, it would have been an incredible experience as the struggle would have been minimal, and the views were beautiful as we climbed up and out the tree line. But I wasn’t alone. I mean, Margo was fine; she’d already had her first nap on the pillow I’d Voile strapped to my Jones bars. Still, she occasionally complained about how tiring this all was, most likely out of solidarity for her struggling sister. I never want to push my kids to the point of absolute meltdown, but I think doing hard things helps build reliance and perspective for when the next hard thing arrives. Things aren’t always perfect, and there have been tears on previous trips. This one was no exception, but I kept pumping them up and stopping for a break anytime either asked.

With a few more hours of riding with equal riding time and snack breaks, we reached the pinnacle of the climbs: a 13-percent gradient riddled with ruts and large stones that was a tough hike-a-bike even for me. I knew this would push Hazel to her limits, and I knew there was one more climb of equal rigor to tackle before we reached the Celestine Lake Campsite. This was the first time bailing crossed my mind. But, I thought if we could get through the flat section quickly, we could make the last climb and make it to camp.

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We had come so far, and my nature is to push on. This mentality had to be kept in check as I watched my amazing little girl cry as she struggled to keep her loaded bike upright among the boulders. At this point, it felt like we had 50/50 odds of pulling off the trail and setting up an impromptu campsite.

With an hour of hike-a-bike behind us and a sufferfest that could only be building trauma and not resilience, we began our descent to the last flat section of the route before the last climb that would take us to our reserved backcountry campsite. We were cruising, and I tried to build positivity by playing some music on my phone. Margo was pumped to hear Taylor Swift blasting, and it even seemed to perk Hazel up as well. I told her, “One more climb, and we’re there!” She responded with a smile and stood up out of the saddle. I released my brakes and descended even faster. Margo let out a “Wahoo!” as we cruised downward.

Just as the descent flattened out, I heard a scream from behind me. I looked back to see Hazel lying face down in the gravel with her bike on top of her, muddy tears streaming down her face. With the burst of speed and positivity, it would seem that Hazel lost control of her bars, and the bike speed-wobbled into the dirt, ending up on top of her. At that moment, as I looked back at my sweet girl, I knew the ride was over. I raced back to her and held her tight. I used the last of my water to clean her cuts. “It’s okay, kiddo,” I said. “We’re done. We will find a place to set up camp.”

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We were back on the bikes after spending the necessary time to let Hazel come down from the emotional high of her crash. We were in search of a suitable spot to camp for the night. We were on the flat section of the route, so real estate was plentiful, but because we were in a national park, I felt bad not camping in a designated campsite. I was in a strange headspace. I needed to find camp fast, but I wanted to be sure I was doing as little damage to the forest floor as possible. I take Leave No Trace seriously, especially in my favorite national park. I had to keep telling myself that it was an emergency and that I had paid for a spot at Celestine Lakes.

“I did my best to follow the rules,” were the words on repeat in my mind. We were 16 kilometers in, with too many left to go. I knew we were done. Finally, after a few hundred more meters, I found a small outcropping of trees to dive into with the bikes. We got off our bikes and walked into the forest, looking for a patch of ground that was spared from last season’s wildfire. After some looking, we found an adequate bivy spot. I dropped the bikes, began pulling out the tent, and set it up.

At this point, my paranoia was high, and regret was sinking in. What kind of a dad was I to put my kids in such a position? How would I ever forgive myself if something serious would have happened to my little girls? I began to worry about bears, weather, and ticks. Everything that would not even cross my mind if I’d been on my own. But things change when your kids are with you. Did I mention we were out of water? And that we still had to cook the dinner?

I moved as fast as I could to get the camp set up. I set the girls up and backtracked to a nasty roadside puddle for enough water to cook and get us through the night. I could have ventured down to the river, but I didn’t want to leave the girls alone for more than a few minutes. I filled a dry bag and raced back to camp. I boiled the water to avoid parasites and made our traditional communal pot of Annie’s. As we sat in the dirt sharing a spoon, we managed a laugh or two. I told Hazel and Margo how proud I was of them for the ride today and that we would feel ready to ride again after a good night’s sleep. I then cleaned up quickly, tucked the girls into bed, and headed down the hill to stow the food bag.

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The night started calm and peaceful as I’d left the fly door open so we could watch the sunset. It was an experience I witnessed on my own, as both girls were out in about 10 minutes. I soon followed their lead, and after a few minutes of thinking about how I would attack the morning, I fell asleep. This would be short-lived, as I woke up to a loud hissing grunt just outside the tent. After nearly filling my shorts, I grabbed the bear spray and my headlamp and stuck my head out of the tent. I imagined coming face-to-face with an angry bear. Luckily, that wasn’t the case. I turned on my headlamp and panned the darkness. Quickly, the light came to a spot 50 feet from the tent, where five pairs of white eyes lit up the darkness. I looked hard, realizing it was a herd of five whitetail does.

I watched closely, hoping they’d make the noise I was hearing so I could rule out the chances of a bear attack. Sure enough, the pack leader bared her teeth and let out a shriek that echoed through the darkness. I was no longer scared, but the sound made the hair on my arms stand up. They were apparently concerned that our tent was on their turf and wanted us to know about it. My fear quickly turned to an adrenaline rush of anger as I sprung up barefoot and nearly naked, chasing them down the hill screaming. They scattered, and I headed back to bed. With my heart pounding, I lay awake in my sleeping bag for most of the rest of the night. I must have dozed off close to dawn when I heard the same hissing sound again; they were back for more. Once again, I rose from my slumber to put the run on the herd of angry whitetails. With that, I decided we’d better get up and get moving. I was tired of fighting off angry deer and wanted nothing more than to be back to basecamp filling my kiddos with ice cream and hot dogs.

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The weather was amazing, and the morning yielded a delightful ride—the kind that makes me want to ride all day. It was a warm July morning with the smell of junipers and pine in the air. As we rode, I used my Garmin inReach to message Kate, as she was our ride out from the trailhead. My message read, “Drive in and meet us on the road. The girls are excited to see you.” I didn’t want to lead on that the trip had been a junk show and that we were ready for Mom.

Finally, after a couple of hours of riding, we came to a day-use spot where we could refill water and have a proper breakfast. We sat, filtered cold water, and enjoyed a big oatmeal breakfast. We took our time and savored the sun and the good vibes. The sense of urgency was gone, and we were able to laugh about all the misfortunes that had happened along the way. We laughed and chatted as the girls explored the forest. I sat and watched them for a while, thinking about how I may have gotten away with one on this trip and how much I learned about taking kids into the unknown. I thought about how I would be far more conservative on the next trip. How I would overplan the hell out of the trip. I considered time and how I’d double how long it takes to make it to a destination.

With spirits up and breakfast down, we loaded our bikes and hit the trail for the last few kilometers. It seemed like only minutes before Kate and Sunny came cruising around a corner in my truck. As we rolled up, Kate got out to greet us. Hazel exclaimed, “Mom, that was a wild trip!” Kate hugged me, and I looked at her smiling. “Yeah, I’m glad to see you, let’s put it that way.”

Overall, the route was incredible, with lots to see and good roads to ride—not to mention the Indigenous history that we were privileged to take in at The Moberly Homestead along the way. Hazel wants to go back, but she wants to do it via the North Boundary Trail. This makes the trip a one-way, mostly downhill effort. We plan to tackle it next summer after I scout the route on my own first. I must say, I’m looking forward to it.

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