The Day the Horse (Did Not Actually) Kick Me

 "### **Year 5 - Day 23 – 1283 – August 31, 2025 - The Day the Horse (Did Not Actually) Kick Me**

Let the record show that on this day, we were functional, semi-punctual human beings. The mission: rendezvous with the Polish hiking contingent at 10 AM sharp at the base of Kicking Horse Mountain. The wake-up call: 7:15 AM. The target departure: 8:00 AM. The actual, real-life, no-take-backsies departure: 8:10 AM. I consider this a blistering victory against the universal forces of entropy that usually govern our mornings. We were basically astronauts.

The drive to Golden was, and I do not use this term lightly, stupidly beautiful. The Rocky Mountains and Purcells don't just *sit* there; they perform. They loom, they dazzle, they make you feel incredibly small and privileged at the same time. It’s like driving through a postcard that smells of pine. We took the only possible route, via highway 95, and I narrated the passing towns like a tour guide for someone who wasn’t listening: “And on your left, Edgewater, home of a man named MacKenzie who built our fence! And now, gone. That was Brisco. Wave hello to Spillimacheen… and goodbye.” The valley widened and narrowed, as if nature were playing with an accordion.

We pulled into the Dreamcatcher Hostel at 9:40 AM. Victory! The Poles, however, were not there. A confused guest informed me that “a group speaking a strange language” had just left. I assured him it was just Polish, not Elvish, and we sped off to the resort.

There they were! Piotr, Basia, and Mike—greeting us like war heroes returning from a long campaign. It was fantastic. The whole crew was there: Ania, Bozenna, Holly, Dragan, Ela, and Ewa. Mike, a gentleman and a scholar, immediately gifted me his senior’s chairlift ticket. I accepted it not as a comment on my age, but as a tactical financial advantage. I am nothing if not pragmatic.

We performed our group “yoga” warm-up, which is less about zen and more about a committee meeting where everyone gets to suggest a stretch. It was gloriously chaotic. We missed Ada, who was holding down the fort in Golden. She was busy with many work proposals that couldn't wait.

Up the Catamount chairlift we went! I documented the journey with my GoPro, capturing the serene smiles of Mike, Basia, and Ewa, who, I’m sure, were contemplating the profound beauty of nature and not just hoping I wouldn’t drop the camera.

We visited Boo the grizzly bear. His story is a real tearjerker—orphaned, lost his sister—but I’d heard it. I respect the bear, but I’m not his biographer. A quick Google will serve you better than my second-hand summary.

Then, the hike began. This is where the group dynamics entered what I call the "Natural Selection Phase." We started together, a happy, chattering organism. Piotr set a pace that suggested he’d just remembered a pot of gold at the top of the mountain. I admired his gusto.

Now, I must tread carefully here. I have a deep, abiding love for my friends. Some are cheetahs, some are majestic, thoughtful tortoises. Mike, marching on a recently fractured tibia, was a damn hero. Bozenna, however, moves with the deliberate speed of a continental plate. I love her—truly, I do—but trying to maintain a hiking rhythm with her is like trying to run in a dream where your legs are made of pudding. There comes a time when the cheetahs must gently, with great affection, break away from the tortoises for the sake of actually reaching a summit before winter sets in.

So, we split. The "Relaxed Unit" (Mike, Piotr, Bozenna) turned back, and the "Alpine Strike Force" (Basia, Ania, Ewa, Dragan, and me) charged upward. The ladies were absolute machines. They ascended with smiles, cracking jokes, barely breaking a sweat. I was impressed. Not "for their age," just flat-out impressed. We spun ridiculous stories—Dragan’s alleged war on squirrels, my ego inflating to dangerous altitudes with every compliment. It was perfect. It was a hike for the ages, and I remembered again that it's not the difficulty of the trail that matters, but the people you share it with.

We reached a glorious viewpoint at 1:40 PM. Time for lunch. I unpacked my masterpiece: a Pepsi, a banana, and a coconut chocolate bar. A symphony of flavours.

Then I heard it. A muttering. A critique of… *Subway sandwiches*.

Friends. Comrades. Let me be assertively clear on this. I am a survivor of the Sarajevo Siege. When you have experienced true hunger, when your biggest culinary question is "Will I eat today?" rather than "Does this artisan bread have the correct mouthfeel?", your perspective on food shifts. Permanently. Any sandwich that is readily available, calorie-dense, and doesn't require you to dodge sniper fire to obtain it is a *good sandwich*. So, let us please retire the casual disdain for perfectly serviceable sustenance. Thank you.

The descent was a berry-filled delight. Wild raspberries, tiny and perfect, were nature’s reward for not complaining. We made it back to the chairlift with time to spare, though I did have a moment of panic watching four fully-grown adults test the engineering limits of a single chair on the way down.

The post-hike "pryvatka" at Ewa’s condo was legendary. Ewa was a great host. Cold beer, a big patio, and great company. We teased Ela and Bozenna about their planned paragliding adventure on Mt. Seven, which I maintain is just falling with style.

Dinner at the 11/22 restaurant was a delightful chaos of mismatched orders. 

Piotr’s fruity, low-alcohol Stiegl beer and comically small meal provided excellent entertainment. 

The place was packed, and I’m sure the line of waiting customers viewed our departure as a municipal holiday.

The drive home was smooth. I may have… enjoyed the new car’s acceleration on the open stretches. After Radium, we got stuck behind drivers who apparently had a religious experience at the speed limit signs, but even that couldn’t dampen the day.

We got home at 9:17 PM, tired and happy. I drove, I climbed, I socialized, I defended the honour of accessible sandwiches. But the best part? Seeing old friends. Yes, some are older, some are slower, and some are weaker. But they are *our* people. They accept us for who we are. And Ada? My brilliant wife, who managed her own day, stocked our kitchen at IGA, meticulously prepared all proposals, and even finished the “Broken Immigration” book. I am, without a doubt, a lucky man. It was a day to remember, and I got to spend all of it with my friends and my Love."

(BB)

Boris Bokov, is a long-time member of the Club, frequent Trip Leader, and occasional contributor to the blog. (PR)