A peak experience: From Vancouver to Whistler

The rope swing dangled from a pine tree at the edge of Logger's Lake, which fills a volcanic cone and is rimmed by jumbles of immense rocks. Still, there was no question I'd be flinging myself from the rope. Not because I wanted to, but because I was scared to. And I always do at least one thing every year that scares me.

Brian Jump, a guide during my weeklong exploration of some of British Columbia's outdoor wonders, said it'd be a piece of cake. Easy for him to say. He spends his days hiking into the wilderness, has a gymnastics background and had been entertaining the kids in our group by doing back flips and somersaults off the rope -- seemingly unaware of the danger of falling too soon and crashing headlong into volcanic rubble. Still, it had to be done.

I gripped the rope's knots precisely where Jump instructed and made him promise to holler when I cleared the rocks. If I didn't vault myself out far enough and came swinging back toward shore, teenager DiDi Murray, another trip member, promised to catch me before I crashed into the little hillside launching pad. I closed my eyes, counted to three and then hurtled toward the lake. Just as I hit the apex of my swing, the crowd yelled, "Jump!" I let go of the rope cleanly, but for some reason pinched my nose before splashing into the lake. No style points, but I did it.

I had come to explore Canada's British Columbia with Whistler Outback Adventures' "Sea to Sky Multi-Sport Trip" because my ideal vacation melds outdoor activities in beautiful, out-of-the-way areas with great food and comfy digs. The trip's six-day itinerary took me by foot, bicycle and raft from Vancouver, on the Pacific Ocean, to the majestic mountain peaks of Whistler.

Although the trip is advertised as suitable for people who can handle moderate amounts of activity, the guides encourage you to push yourself. As a runner, I knew I could handle the hiking, but whitewater rafting and mountain biking on real mountains -- not the gentle hills we have at home -- would nudge me into new territory.

Day 1 began with introductions. Our guides were Matt Delany, owner of Whistler Outback Adventures, and Jump, sales manager and guide with affiliated Arizona Outback Adventures. I was the only solo traveler, accompanied by the seven-member Murray clan and two father-child pairs. Following a short warm-up hike in thickly forested Alice Lake Provincial Park just north of Vancouver, it was time to take on the mighty Elaho and Squamish Rivers.

Although a virgin rafter about to tackle powerful Class 3 and 4 rapids, I had no qualms. Until we arrived. Due to recent rains, the rivers were grossly swollen. To be safe, we'd put in below Devil's Elbow, a 90-degree hitch in the river that's tough to negotiate on a good day. The rafting supervisor carefully spelled out what to do if we fell overboard and were about to smash into a rock or fallen tree, or be swept over some rapids. She also noted we'd be responsible for rescuing each other because our guide would have to steer the raft. A few people promptly backed out, and for a brief second I considered joining them.

I settled into one of the waiting rafts and nervously noted that the two youngest in our group -- 12-year-old Brendan Massey and 13-year-old Erin Lung -- were in mine. Despite my jangling nerves, the trip was thrilling. We zipped and twirled down the rivers, smashing into waves with abandon. The kids were great paddlers, and quite confident, inspiring me to relax and enjoy the undulating waves of the Steamroller section and scorn the perils posed by the Constrictor as we slid through its narrow passage. My limit-stretching had begun.

Flies, flies, flies

On the second day, we set out on a 3-mile hike up steep, rocky mountain terrain in Joffre Lakes Provincial Park. Although the climb was strenuous, we'd hike past three turquoise glacial lakes before lunching within view of the mighty Matier Glacier. But when we got to the trailhead, we were greeted by thick clouds of biting black flies.

"I'm sure they'll disappear as we climb," Delany said with a bit of forced cheerfulness. But the flies were relentless, swarming all over our exposed limbs, eyes and nostrils. Because of the flies, unusually hot temps and challenging terrain, the group nearly voted to bag it, but we pushed on in hopes the flies would dissipate at the mountaintop, where the air was cooler and breezier.

Mercifully, that's exactly what happened. Feeling like we'd stumbled into paradise, we gawked at the impressive glacier, whose meltwaters were furiously tumbling into beautiful Upper Joffre Lake, while the guides began setting up a festive picnic lunch on a tumble of large, glacial rocks.

As we relaxed in our bug-free surroundings, Delany gave us a short geology lesson on glacial terrain, while Jump entertained the kids by juggling sandwiches and instructing them how to enjoy the gourmet spread. "My recommendation for the Nutella is to eat it with some of these locally made Bana Bickie crackers," he said, dipping a thin wafer into the creamy chocolate hazelnut spread, then popping it into his mouth. "Confirmed."

Mountain bike nirvana

After a few days in the Pemberton area, about 20 miles northeast of Whistler, we settled into the Whistler Creek Lodge for the remainder of our trip. First up: a day or two of mountain biking.

I pictured us pedaling along fairly sedate, rolling paths; I didn't realize Whistler is nirvana to the mountain biking community. The sport is so popular here, said Delany, it draws more people than skiing. A nearly continuous stream of gondolas glided up the steep mountainside, depositing loads of cyclists at the top.

Delany turned us away from the mountains and the helmeted, thickly padded riders, who resembled alien invaders; we did most of our biking along paved, hilly paths. Near the end of the day, Delany led us to the head of the Tommy Moore/Hooktender Trail. One of Whistler's numerous single-track trails, it didn't look terribly dangerous -- certainly nothing like the paths criss-crossing Whistler Mountain -- but it contained a few hairpin turns. Then two passing cyclists warned us they'd just spotted a family of black bears along the trail, including two cubs. I made it down without smashing into a tree or being attacked by an angry Mama bear, although I rode the brakes much of the way.

The schedule for our last full day called for several miles of hiking atop Whistler Mountain on the lyrically named High Note Trail. At around 7,000 feet, the path is accessible only from about mid-July to mid-September, when the 35 or so feet of snow that typically falls in winter has finally melted.

The narrow path winds around the northeast side of Whistler Mountain, showcasing breathtaking views of aquamarine Cheakamus Lake far below and impressive Black Tusk -- an inky volcanic rock poking out of the Coast Mountain Range -- across the valley.

We walked along the rocky, rutted trail in silence, drinking in the majesty of our setting, from squat, imposing Black Tusk to the delicate alpine flowers blooming in profusion at our feet: butter-yellow Mountain Arnica and Buttercup, feathery Indian Paintbrush, deep-purple Arctic Lupine.

Suddenly I noticed Delany mutely pointing toward the rocks. I look up a second too late; the hoary marmot had vanished. About the size of a badger, and known for its distinctive, high-pitched whistle, hoary marmots thrive on Whistler Mountain. In fact, the mountain used to be called London Mountain but was renamed Whistler in 1900 because of the vocal marmots.

"Don't worry," said Delany. "I'm sure we'll see another one."

A second later I heard a shrill noise and thought I was in luck. But it wasn't a marmot I'd heard, it was Erin and Brendan. The two -- from Hawaii and Mississippi, respectively -- were squealing because they'd spied a small hanging snowfield, a little dimple on Whistler's face that still held its wintry catch.

Soon snowballs (ice balls, really) were whizzing through the air. Their enthusiasm for the snow was infectious, so I introduced them to a good, old Midwestern face washing, scrubbing their cheeks with generous handfuls of snow. In another move straight from my elementary school playbook, I snuck up behind each one and shoved some snow down their backs. Bad move; suddenly fistfuls of snow were trickling down my own back.

Our fun was soon interrupted by a clap of thunder and a mountain patrolman. Lightning had just struck neighboring Blackcomb Mountain and started a fire. Both mountains were being evacuated.

During our last hurrah in B.C.'s wilderness, which culminated in the rope swing acrobatics, our guides saluted us for withstanding a black fly infestation, strenuous hikes, mountaintop wildfires -- and for pushing our limits.

Melanie Radzicki McManus is a freelance writer living in Sun Prairie, Wis.