Finally, finally, finally. After months of feeling like the only person that lives in the Rockies that hadn’t seen a bear, I got to see one.

I went up to Mosquito Creek with two co-workers to escape from Banff for a few days and basically just wonder around a little bit. On the first day there a couple checking into the wilderness hostel that we were staying in told us that there was a black bear across the road walking up and down the creek. So Nick, the manager of the hostel grabbed his air horns and bear-spray and we went across to check it out.

The bear was kind of freaking out on account of all the stopped cars and tourists walking around looking at it (admittedly, yes, I was one of them), and didn’t really seem to know where to go. Nick put down his beer, jumped the little barricade and let loose with two air horns, which was the right thing to do, scaring the bear off in the opposite direction away into the trees.

I have never seen someone cursed in so many different languages at once. This little old Italian man followed us most of the way back to the hostel yelling at him in Italian, breaking only occasionally to say "Why, why?" or "Too much beer, too much beer". Nick tried to explain in his own, blunt demeanor that it was better for the bear, that people shouldn’t have gotten out of their car, and that its not really healthy for him or the animal to be that close to his front door.

 Last week I was asked what I was afraid of. Only one thing came to mind.

Two days or so ago, Brahim and myself decided that it had been put off long enough and we were going to conquer Mount Rundle - an 8 hour or so round-trip up and down one of the most recognisable mountains in the area.

Without wanting to sound rude, Brahim struggled from the get-go. We were only a couple of hundred metres up the trail when he first had to stop - covered in sweat, bright-red and already discussing the possibilities of failure.

Credit to the guy though, he soldiered on and we managed to make it to The Dragons Back - a two metre wide walkway that leads to the summit. The back is a rock face covered in loose rocks and sits at approximately a 50 degree angle. To get to the Dragons Back you have to scramble a good couple of hundred metres up much wider albeit very similar terrain.

It took us about four hours to get to this point, and it was one of the main reasons for the expedition. Brahim had decided that he didn’t want to go any further, he just couldn’t do it - his legs were cramping up and he had called himself a "fat lazy bastard" for the last time. He decided that he’d wait while I went on the summit alone - which should have only been an hour and a half or so scramble to the top.

So I left him there, perched on a rock on the side of the mountain and carried on. Inappropriate footwear is a recurring theme with me, and it turns out that 7 year old jogging shoes weren’t the best choice for this part of the mountain. I was forced to crawl up the mountain as every time I tried to slowly walk I’d begin to slip.

I continued on for only about fifty metres or so - and for the first time in a long time I was legitimately terrified. I was never worried about falling off the edge, as close as it was, it was more tumbling back down the rock face I’d just climbed as nothing would stop me until I hit the tree line about 200 metres or so back down the slope. If I wasn’t alone, it would have been a different story. The fear of falling and hurting myself wouldn’t have seemed so bad. If someone else was there ahead of me, there’s no-way I’d be left behind.

That’s irrelevant though. The moral of the story is I chickened out. I gave up, turned around and went back. More experienced hikers do this alone all the time. Less experienced hikers do this alone all the time.

Now I’m being taunted. Every time I look out my window I see that fucking mountain. Every time I walk to work I see that fucking mountain. Everywhere I turn I see that fucking mountain.

Thursday. Thursday, I’m going to climb that fucking mountain.