Trial By Mountain: Surviving the Trickster's Peak

Mt. Loki, the iconic peak that commands the northeast-shore skyline, has likely turned away more weary hikers than she has allowed to pass.

Named after the Norse trickster god, she doesn’t just have one, but two false peaks, designed to fool and break down even the most prepared adventurers.

For years, whenever Loki came up in conversation with fellow outdoor lovers, my answer was always the same: "Hell no!" Some of the best hikers I knew echoed similar sentiments—"hardest hike I've ever done," "I barely made it," and "never again." Why would I do that to myself?

Then, one mid-July Sunday afternoon in 2023, after my adventure buddy and I had wrapped up an epic trip that included taking on Macbeth Icefield, we found ourselves admiring Loki's ominous peak from the deck of the Kootenay Lake Ferry. A wave passed through me. I gulped and grinned. "Shawn, call me crazy, but I want to do it."

I held onto that intention for the rest of the summer, and on the September long weekend, it finally happened. With more courage than fear and two good friends from Nelson, we set out on what would be an unforgettable conquest.

The morning was early, my coffee was strong, and our energy was high. The initial ascent felt never-ending—a steady climb through forest and up a steep valley, with breaks to eat huckleberries and catch our breath. Then, at last, we saw where we were headed. Looking up at her, we felt as small as ants, questioning what we had gotten ourselves into.

We knew about the two false peaks. We could see them clearly dotting the sky ahead. As we left the trees and made our way across the ridge, we entered the terrain where the real challenge began—where the line between scrambling and rock climbing starts to blur.

This was the part where we began to question all of our life choices.

We climbed and climbed and climbed some more. One thing I teach about fear is that it keeps us present and focused. That could not have been truer than that day, hanging off Loki’s rock edges, relying on three-point contact at all times. It’s a different kind of fear (and adrenaline) when you know that one wrong move could be disastrous.

I’ve hiked more physically demanding terrain than Loki, but the mental challenge here was something else. There was a lot of motivational self-talk and breathwork. Sometimes, I just had to sit down to calm my system. Hanging tip-toe on a rock slab, both hands gripping tight, whispering to myself, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I just need a minute.”

My friend’s partner, much faster than us, carried a radio and went ahead to scout the route. At one point, he checked in, and we guessed we were close to the top of the second false summit. But as we clawed our way over the rock wall in front of us, we were met with a wave of deflation—we were only at the top of the first false summit.

That’s the trickery of Loki. And here’s the thing—you think the first false summit is tough, and then you reach the second. That’s when it really begins. By the time we stood on the second false summit, staring up at the final ascent, I could have been talked out of continuing. I didn’t say it out loud, but as my friend and I looked at that last climb, I had already decided—if she wanted to quit, I would too.

We debated it. It looked sketchy. Did we have the mental and physical endurance to keep going? Then her partner radioed in, assuring us that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. If you’ve hiked much, you know these kinds of assurances are usually horrible lies. But this time, it wasn’t. The third summit was so much easier than it appeared—definitely easier than what we had just endured.

Reaching the top of that mountain, feeling that swell of emotions and dopamine, is something I will never forget. The 360-degree views, towering above all the surrounding peaks, standing at the top of the skyline. I might have cried. I definitely ate and rested. And then, reality hit—we still had to get back down. Which, in my view, is much easier.

On our way down, we met other intrepid hikers and learned that at least two other groups had turned around that day—no surprise, all somewhere around that second summit. From what I gather, the number of people who make it to the peak is probably about equal to the number who turn back.

We had a hilarious moment coming off the first summit, crossing a massive rock slide. I looked at my friend and asked, “Am I losing it, or did we not hike this on the way up?” She replied, “I don’t remember this either.” Rounding the base, we looked straight up a steep crevice and burst out laughing. “We don’t remember it because we missed it—we climbed straight up instead.” So, yeah, our ascent was harder than it needed to be. But that’s all part of the adventure.

Like so many of these hikes, the final 2–3 kilometers felt like an eternity. We hooted and hollered when we got back to the vehicle, then plunged into the refreshing waters of Kootenay Lake. That night, I ate dinner while soaking in the bathtub. Partially because I had agreed to hike in the Rockies the next day, and efficiency was key to getting to bed at a decent hour.

But that’s another story.

As for Loki, she left a mark on me that I will never forget. And I will surely return.