The Why

Originally, I planned to be on the Colorado Trail with my fellow PCT hiker Paul. But with the latest U.S. border chaos and stories of thru-hikers ending up in detention centers, Canada felt like the saner choice. Especially since I'd been black listed a while back in the land of the free.

So I turned my eyes north.

Partly because I’d been meaning to visit Trevor since 2020. Back then the border was closed, so I couldn’t hike into Canada after the PCT. This summer, that door was finally open.

Now, the idea of hiking one of the most challenging and spectacular long-distance trails in North America felt… very right. And it was. I’m deeply grateful I made that call.

The Trail

The Great Divide Trail has a reputation for being wetter than most. But this year? Locals called this season very rainy. In Vancouver, the most shatter rainfall record in a day was just measured—since 113 years. Sounds about right.

For me, it was a damp, misty, wet, watery, submarinic walk through the Rockies.

Actually—let’s not sugarcoat it: It was a friggin’ mud-drenched trench war with the elements.

But you know what? Suffering’s part of the deal. And I’d rather choose my own pain than let it choose me.

Type 2 fun in its purest form.

As they say: without shadow, there is no light—and after the rain comes sun. Which shines brighter than ever.

Besides: I’ll take rain over wildfires and smoke any day.

The Experience

Because of everything I’ve done before, I felt confident and calm the whole time. Even when I lost the trail. In the middle of the night. In the thickest of bush.

This remoteness and the solitude—they work wonders on my thoughts. Something about having zero reception and a fully structured day… It calms me.

It gives my mind the space to wander. To reflect.

I can see the whole picture clearly now: my past adventures are the puzzle pieces that made this one possible. ✨️

The Shoutouts

Thank you, Canada. And thank you to the beautiful people I met along the way. Especially trail angels like Laure, Andrew, Kim, and Paul.

Big hugs to my fellow GDT hikers: Jiri, V, Keiko, Tjalling, Caitlen, Rachel, Carlie + fam

And of course, the one and only Andrew from Port Coquitlam.

Thank You from my Heart

To my parents—for your belief and patience. To Manu the brain behind North of Society—for bringing this baby to life with me since 2019. To Trevor—for the assistance and Calgary home base. To Fabi, Eugsti, Schnüffler, Nico, Tigi, Reto, Marion, Peti and Luki—you are the best friends I can imagine. And to all of you who believed in me—in the highs and in the lows.

Thank you to the fire that burns inside me. To the wind that cools my skin and plays music in the trees. To the water that shows me every obstacle can be crossed. To the earth, full of plants and animals, grounding, calming, strengthening me. To the sun, drying my damp gear and warming me up after a long night. To the mountains, always showing me the bigger picture.

Thank you to the spirits of the North, South, East, and West.

And thank you to all the Thunderbirders and Rainbow Warriors out there. You know who you are.

Final words

Do you want to fill your life with things— Or do you want to live a full life?

I’ve made my choice.

Oh, and just so we’re all on the same page: BEARS DON’T EXIST 🤭

Didn’t disappoint. In fact, it turned the volume all the way up. Everything I’d experienced before—just more.

Rapids got wilder. Swamps deeper. Bushwhacks rougher. The trail? A suggestion sometimes at best. I got lost more often. Navigation became a puzzle.

Put in big days. Slept under the full moon. Got soaked in cold rain. Got dried in warm sun. Swore at unmaintained trail. Listened to nature.

Found peace. Felt joy.

Live by the Numbers

Climbed over 85 downed trees. Fording Moose River? Double digits. My rain pants ripped—so I treated them with duct tape and needle & thread, trail-style.

That night I rolled into camp wet and cold, borderline hypothermic. But all part of the game.

A Day Almost Like at the Beach

The next day? Sunny, dry, beautiful. Walked side by side with a handsome elk across the flood plains—divided only by a stream. After two days solo, that encounter felt magical.

Well done, elk.

From Flood Plains to Alpine Ridges

The terrain turned to rocky ridges and route-finding madness. Bushwhacks, boulder hops, and plenty of head-scratching moments. Still, couldn’t stop soaking in the views. Big, bold, wild.

Run the Hills

Made it to Blueberry Lake. Set up camp, dropped the pack, turned it into a runner’s vest and ran 7 km down 900 vertical meters to grab my final resupply. Hiker box was locked. Had the code. Didn’t work. Tried every combo... except the right one. Eventually cracked it.

Inside: food and a note from Mini-Me.

Well done, Mario.

Rivers, Not Roads

Walked into Joe, an engineer from Calgary. We collected and stuffed blueberries into our faces until we looked like two Smurfs. Delicious :)

23 crossings of Jackpine River later, I was soaked, stained, and ready for some uphill walking.

1,000 km In – Still In Awe

I kept going solo after the 1,000 km mark. Climbed two hills that Friday evening. Storm winds. Crimson skies. Alone at 10 p.m. on a shale ridge.

That moment cracked me open. Left a piece of my heart up there. Slept under a full moon like a baby.

Horsing Around

Took it slower the next day. My left foot started protesting—rashy, itchy, hot.

Soaked my shoes in every river. Mud and moisture had eaten my feet alive.

Camped near Copper Kettle Creek to recover—where a crew of horseback riders arrived. Their horses were excellent company.

The Magic Sauce

Pulled out that Polysporin. Canadian miracle paste. It says “helps speed healing” on the label—and hell yeah, it does. By morning the rash was nearly gone. Trail MVP.

The Whole GDT in a Day

One last storm Surprise Pass almost blew me off my feet. What a way to finish.

Came down to Kakwa Lake, lost and found one final time. Was met by Kim and Paul, the park hosts—and a group of fish scientists.

Kim walked me the final 100 meters to the northern terminus.

After 33 days and 1,100 kilometers.

We were soon joined by four other hikers. The scientists surprised us with a leftover hot dog BBQ. What a delicious feast!

That night we moved into the park’s cozy guest cabin. Wood stove full throttle in overdrive— and some of the worst sleep of the whole trip.

Because: heat and other people, of course.

This is Me

The science bros helicoptered out this morning. The couples left. Canadian Trent just arrived. Just had coffee and cookies with Kim and Paul. Andrew’s chatting with a new couple from Australia.

It’s raining outside. We’re warm and dry inside. My playlist is running.

Life is good. 💝

Once again, I’ve ticked off my chores:

✓ Resupply for the next 5 days—this time with more fruit, less sugar, and mostly vegetarian ✓ Followed up on a possible floatplane pickup from Kakwa Lake (not going to happen probably) ✓ Confirmed my resupply drop in Blueberry Fields ✓ Coordinated the post-trail pickup via 4x4 truck ✓ Ate plenty, chatted loads, and met a few genuinely interesting people

Ready, Set, Go

Now it’s time to enter the final two sections of the Great Divide Trail. Locals speak about these last 400 km with reverence. They say it’s rugged. Overgrown. Wild. No defined trail anymore. No people either. Just silence, remoteness—that's what I came here for.

Looking Ahead

I’m curious where this will take me. After two days of comfort and overabundance, I can’t wait to head back into the wild. Ten days of full immersion. No signal. No service. Just nature, me, myself and I. The pack is ready. New shoes are laced.

Now two kind souls from the hostel are driving me to the trailhead.

Final stretch of the GDT—let’s go.

Three weeks in. This is when the magic happens.

I'm still two days ahead of schedule. But the real progress comes from within.

My senses are sharpened. When something breaks routine—even slightly—I notice. A snapped branch, a shifted scent, grass bent in the wrong direction. I feel it. I sense it. I know it. I smell hikers before I see them. Especially the weekend warriors with their boutique detergent—my god, it’s heavenly.

I trust my instincts. I’m fully immersed in the Rockies. Out here, I feel safe. Also at night. It’s a quiet kind of belonging. The kind that only comes when you start feeling like part of nature, not just a guest.

And sure, the inReach weather report is a good backup—but one look at the sky tells me all I need to know.

Clean Water, crisp taste

Stopped filtering water around Elk Pass. That was over 380 km ago. Trust the process. So far, so good.

Less is More

Brought a little too little food—but added an extra day, and that gave me exactly the calories I needed to feel strong. Also I'm kinda done with sweet stuff. Note to future me: pack fewer sugary snacks in the next resupply. Just saying.

Knock Knock

It’s quiet inside. In a good way. I carry good energy. My thoughts are clear. Throughout the day, I think about my tribe—family, friends—you’re with me, every step. ❤️

About Last Night

Had a solid dinner. Planned to take it slow. Then ended up deep in conversation with Longjun from China, who grew up in a four-million-people city you’ve probably never heard of.

A few curious bypassere stopped by while I was giving an improvised world map geography lesson. They invited us to crash their wedding.

So yeah. That happened. And it was lovely.

Side Note

The GDT-folk hinored me with a trail name: The Machine 🤖

Got to let that one sink in. For a moment 🤠

From crisp to chaos in under 48 hours

It all started so innocent. A warm evening roadwalk out of Saskatchewan Crossing. Dry feet, light breeze, a silent night under the stars. My camp that night? Probably the driest setup I’ve had in weeks. The next day was textbook hiking bliss. Fresh socks, crispy shoes, everything in flow. For a moment.

And then—mud. And more mud. And my feet got the memo instantly.

Swamp Diaries

This section? Mosquito breeding grounds with a side of horsefly aggression and a black fly bonus round. The boggy terrain made sure I stayed wet from the shins down, and the frequent river crossings were both blessing and curse—cooling off and cleaning up, but also ensuring I’d never be dry again.

A Gentle Mist

Bushwhacker heaven. And it shows: my shins and forearms are now a modern art piece of scratchwork and stings. On the bright side: I'm more outdoors than man by now.

Top of the GDT

Made it to the highest point on the Great Divide Trail. Took a shot of Fireball from a stash in the summit register ammo box and blasted back down the mountain. No complaints. Just stoke.

In Other News

Ran out of fuel for my stove and had to switch to cold soaking. Still hate it. Will always hate it.

Also ran out of toilet paper this morning—so I guess it’s time to rejoin society. Just for a moment.

Section D. This is what I came for. The past three days have been wild—in the best possible way.

Deep appreciation for that section

It all kicked off after Field. I took on the legendary Skyline Trail, and let me tell you: it didn’t hold back. Glacier caves. Skidding slopes. Scrambling sections. Rock hopping. Straight ups and downs. Route finding. At one point, I even climbed up what looked suspiciously like a grizzly bear slide.

And then came the night.

With a headlamp strapped on, I ran a fading trail into the darkness. Got lost. Recalibrated. Found an old forest road and pitched my tent. Woke up early and blasted through 40+ km down to the flood plains. Just me and the mosquitoes. So. Many. Mosquitoes.

Somewhere in the dusk I met Tjalling, a Dutch hiker. We shared a few muddy laughs before parting ways in the morning. At 6:20 am, I hit the trail again. Waded rivers. Slogged through bogs. Fought off horseflies with ninja precision. Then finally—a five-kilometre roadwalk into Saskatchewan Crossing.

Tjalling got himself a room. I went to the reception, where Carlos from Guerrero, Mexico, handed me my resupply package. Legend. I checked in, showered, did laundry, and sat down at the pub wearing new trail runners and borrowed deodorant from the store.

And now? Now I’m clean, fed, recharged—and totally ready for whatever’s next.

Let’s go.

I usually wake up around 5:30 and convince myself it’s too early to move. Especially if I hear rain on the tent or feel a chill in the air—altitude and weather do their thing. So I curl deeper into my sleeping bag and listen.

At some point, I run my fingers along the inside wall to check for condensation. If it’s raining, I toss my inReach satellite device outside and request a weather update. Getting out of that warm sleeping bag is by far the hardest task of the day—but once I’m up, I’m good to go.

Nature calls. I dash out and take a dump. Then brush my teeth, pack my gear and hike out about twenty minutes later.

The early hours are always calm. Quiet. I take in the beauty of my surroundings and think about the trail ahead.

After about three hours—or 15 km—it’s time to shift gears. That’s when I throw on my jam: 🎧 On GDTrail, shining.

I trailblaze. Legs flying. Spirits are high. Sometime around noon the sun shows up. I start scanning for open flat ground—time to dry out gear, refill water, and eat lunch.

The afternoons can get long. I might message fellow hikers via satellite or update the website. I love that Twitter-like aspect of tossing 160-character thoughts out onto the map.

As the day winds down, I check my devices more frequently—how many kilometers left, how much elevation, how long ‘til camp. This is when I have to double-check my ego. Fatigue creeps in. A wrong turn is easily made.

But eventually, I get to camp. By now, everything is automatic:

• Get 2 liters of water.
• Stop tracking.
• Pitch the tent.
• Inflate the pad.

Then cook and eat. Store food in the bear bag and hang it somewhere semi-convincing. Crawl into my tent. Coziness sets in.

I’ll check the stats for the next day. Plug in my devices. Maybe watch half an episode of "The Bear".

And that’s my day.

Chairlift Karma

Coming back from Banff, I jumped off the gondola at Sunshine and ran toward the final chairlift—barely made it. The lift slowed down. A woman was already on the seat. She looked at me and said, “Hop in, but fair warning—I stink.”

Not as bad as me. We laughed. I offered her fresh fruit. That's how I met Laure.

Turns out, we’d crossed paths before in Assiniboine. She’d even heard about my delaminated sleeping pad. So she offered me hers. Trail magic. Laure lives in Field, invited me to stay at her place—an old police station—and handed me her number.

So yeah. I’m currently based at her police station in Field, B.C.

Well done, universe.

Old Faces, New Mileage

The morning after Banff came with a 50+ km day and serious elevation. Somewhere after bathing super-stinky me in Floe Lake (smell rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️), I met Angie—a nurse from Jasper.

She told me about an Australian guy with the same pack as mine. Handsome. Dynamic. Also heading to Wolverine Pass.

He wasn’t there. Still searching for that Crocodile Dundee. If you saw him, hit me up.

A Slippery Slope

The next day brought cold, rain, and glorious mud. The trail turned into a slide. I took more than one fall. Missed a junction. Backtracked about a kilometer. Humbled, soggy, mildly annoyed.

Eventually hitched a ride into Field. Had dinner with Laure and crashed at her place. Warm shower. Soft bed. Heaven.

Hitchhiking in Style

Next mission: Golden. Armed with a cardboard sign and high expectations, I tried my luck. Didn't pull the right cards this morning—until Canada’s magic stepped in again. An actual bus pulled up beside me like I’d summoned it.

In Golden: food resupply, gear replacement, snack break, and a freshly scribbled sign to hitch back. Two hours later, Alisson picked me up at a gas station. If you’re reading this: thanks for the fruit and the easy talk.

Shortly before Field, we spotted a red dot walking up the highway— it was Keiko. Again. We stopped, scooped her up, and now she’s staying at Laure’s too.

We’re all connected, you know.

Side Note: The Helicopter Crowd

If you ever wonder what outdoor luxury looks like—twice a week, people helicopter in from Banff to Assiniboine to “experience the wild.” Wednesdays and Sundays.

Sometimes it’s a strange world we’ve built for ourselves.

Good night 😴

Took a zero day (0 km) at Boulton Creek Campground. There’s one single shop—and the snack aisle might be the unhealthiest I’ve seen in years. Boredom hit quickly, so I ended up stuffing my face with the trashiest food I could find, all while rationing out my resupply into daily portions. Efficient and tragic.

Next morning, Carla—a hiker girl I’d just met—found a ride back to the trailhead and invited me to tag along. I said my thank yous, jumped out of the car... and walked straight into a jungle. A very wet one.

There was easily more water on that trail than in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. And since I didn’t bother putting on rain pants, I got soaked—top to bottom. Fast. That made me cold. And angry. Mostly cold.

By the time I made it out of that swamp, I was shivering. Could barely open my pack or set up my tent on that pass above 2,000 meters. So I stripped down, warmed up, had a double dinner, and passed out. Classic mountain reset.

The next morning was crisp. I threw on every last piece of dry clothing and pushed on. Hiked all day up to Assiniboine Lodge, where I bumped into Keiko—she’s a GDTA ambassador. Since the campground was fully booked, we shared her spot. Trail magic.

Also, I think it’s time to break up with my sleeping pad. It’s been expanding more and more every night. I can’t breathe in the tent anymore. So I went on a sidequest—straight into Banff.

Call it Gomorrah.

First off: they didn’t have any of the gear I needed. No pad. No Darn Tough socks. Just overpriced puff jackets and busloads of tourists. Honestly, a bit much for a trail-tired hiker like me.

So now I’m on the bus back to Sunshine Village. Still carrying that bulging sleeping pad, a mixed fruit salad, and a solid crunch mix of veggies. Darn, I love you, healthy foods.

Spoiler alert: I called Golden Outdoors in—well—Golden. They’ve got a pad for me. It’s reserved. Pure gold. 💛

Text Entries

Jesus. Five days in and the line between reality and fever dream is already thin.

Holly and Mike, two friendly Calgarians, saved me at a fully booked campsite and let me crash next to their tent. Then Louis showed up – a young gun also hiking the GDT.

At Akamina I ended up eating steak with Canadian Special Forces while scanning the sky for helicopters. No idea how I got there, but I wasn’t about to say no. From there it was all sun-blasted ridge walks, bushwhacking and scrambling up Mt. Rowe. Font Creek greeted me low on water, with massive claw marks on the trees. It’s clear who’s running this.

La Coulotte Ridge brought rain and dark clouds. Just as the sky opened up, I stumbled onto a shelter I’d read about in some random comment. Pure gold. The next day was a ten-hour roadwalk through wind and rain – 50 km like a lost mailman. Coleman never looked so good.

New words of the week: rockbear, stompbear and minping (minimalist camping – the opposite of glamping).

Good things ahead. Good night.

Text Entries

✅ Been to my first rodeo. ✅ Got in for free. ✅ Won money at the casino (crabs* & blackjack – beginner’s luck is real). ✅ Did a shot of tequila, obviously. ✅ Had a last supper at the Thai place. ✅ Packed my backpack one final time. ✅ Checked every single box on the to-do list.

That’s it. No more excuses. No more planning. Time to walk. 🥾

*I know it’s craps. still calling it crabs.

Text Entries

The journey didn’t waste time throwing in a plot twist. My flight from Zurich to Frankfurt was delayed, leaving me with a frantic airport sprint worthy of a Strava segment. Made it to the gate sweaty and slightly heroic—onto Calgary. Landed on time, feeling smug. Then came the karmic slap: my luggage decided it needed a layover of its own.

For a moment I pictured myself starting the GDT without my gear. Minimalism at its finest. But late last night, after a few delivery hiccups, my backpack showed up at Trevor’s door. Seeing it there felt like greeting an old friend you weren’t sure would make it. Quiet relief.

Trevor. My guy. We met 19 years ago while surfing in Lombok. Back then it was all salt water and sand. Now it’s groceries, gear, and resupply logistics in a Calgary suburb. Full circle, I guess. His place has become my trail HQ—Amazon boxes stacked in corners, spreadsheets on screens, and 24 days’ worth of food lined up on the counter. About 800 grams a day. Enough? Too much? Not enough? I’ll find out soon enough if I planned for abundance or if I’ll be rationing peanut butter in week two.

The Stampede is in full swing here. Streets packed with cowgirls and cowboys, country music echoing between buildings. Yesterday we stumbled across a TLC playback show—yes, that TLC. Tonight, we’re heading to a rodeo. Why not? I like slipping into local life before disappearing into the backcountry.

Everything’s falling into place. Step by step. Life is good.

There are more lovely things than scheduling your every step in advance. But on the Great Divide Trail, you kind of have to. Maybe that’s why only around 30 people a year hike that beast.

The GDT passes through five national parks. Most require permits. For some campsites I plan to stay at, I had to book a spot months in advance. Plus: Reservations open in March, Long before the season starts. Canadians know that. I didn't.

That's why I started to look into booking a little late — over two months later than most. In the end it worked out. I spent over a hundred bucks on phone bills while talking to the guys from Parks Canada. And you know what? Like the Canadian stereotype – Those Rangers are incredibly friendly. One even called me back to sort things out. Well done Canada.

The pack is ready. 6.2 kilograms base weight. Every piece hand picked. Little things will be carried without a reason, and most with more than one.

My clothes bag seconds as a pillow. The spoon doubles as a toothbrush. It’s a system built for movement—lean, versatile, and functional.

Kind of on the lighter side, but with enough room for a cozy night out in a rainy valley. That's me.

Full gear list here

Soon I’ll set out from Waterton Park, heading north to Kakwa Lake. 1,200 kilometers along the spine of the Rockies, tracing the border between British Columbia and Alberta.

Been reading, planning and daydreaming about it since May. Now I can almost feel the trail: dense forests to bushwhack, glacial rivers to wade, and long stretches where the only sound will be my own breath.

Thirty-five days. By myself.

I’m ready.

Let’s go.