Andrew and I recently did a road trip from Vancouver Island to Banff in this 1980's Westie, named Butters. On our first night we had been traveling for what seemed like hours to head to Jones Lake for the night. By the time we arrived to the gravel road leading to the lake it was very much dark out, and we had five miles left up a steep, curvy, pot hole filled gravel road. I was behind the wheel and poor old butters was put to her ultimate test. After what seemed like an hour of frayed nerves, beating hearts, and hoping very much to not get a popped tire in the middle of nowhere with no service, we arrived to where the coordinates said the campsite would be. But there was nothing there. Exasperated and tired, we kept going and going, until finally I decided to turn off onto a logging area and just call it a night. Resigned to the fact we would not be camping at the lake.

I woke up to the first rays of dawn, cold and groggy.  I was a little disoriented with my surroundings, and it took me a few seconds to register where I was.  As soon as it hit me, I flung up and threw open the dingy 80’s curtains, revealing a scene beyond my expectations. Fog was just lifting over one of the most beautiful lakes I had ever seen. It was a deep blue, with snow and pine covered mountains surrounding. This was in juxtaposition with the touch of mankind, which had removed many trees along the lakes shore for the logging industry. The place also had a silence about it, as if everything was still at rest just waiting for the sun to start shining. 

I woke Andrew up and we got out of old butters and proceeded to spend the morning taking photos, and cooking by the lake. It was one of those perfectly calm mornings that you cherish in an otherwise chaotic life. I am forever thankful for butters and Jones Lake for providing me with the moment.