A Walk Around Emerald Lake | Sleep Story

Hi there.

Thank you for joining me for this story.

My name is Susan Guttridge,

And I've written this one for those of you who find peace in the quiet magnificence of chilly mountain lakes and winding hiking trails,

And for those of you whose busy minds might be needing a story specifically crafted to gently soothe and delightfully bore you into slumber.

I know how elusive a peaceful night's rest can be sometimes,

And so I'm grateful you've chosen a story,

And me,

To help your mind settle and your body find its way to rest.

So as the day recedes and the hush of the evening descends,

I invite you to settle into your quiet space for rest,

Dim the lights,

And feel the comforting embrace of your bed,

The soft pillow cradling your head,

And your blankets like a cozy hug around you.

Allow any lingering tension to melt away from your neck and shoulders,

Releasing and softening with each slow,

Deep breath.

This is your time to rest,

A pause for your body to rejuvenate and for your mind to quiet.

If it's okay,

Let your eyes drift closed,

Kind of like a curtain drawing on your day.

Now,

As you settle deeper into this peaceful moment,

I invite your imagination to join me on a journey.

In this story,

I will share with you a hike I took around the beautiful and serene Emerald Lake,

Nestled within the heart of Yoho National Park in British Columbia.

This remarkable landscape,

Part of the Canadian Rocky Mountains,

Holds a unique history,

And its natural beauty is so captivating.

My goal in weaving this tale is for you to drift effortlessly into a state of peaceful relaxation and then sleep.

All you have to do is listen,

Allowing the imagery to unfold in your mind's eye as we begin our tranquil adventure.

Picture yourself here beside me as I stand at the trailhead,

The loop that winds around Emerald Lake,

With the mid-morning sun beginning to touch the Canadian Rocky Mountains.

The air is crisp and cool for late May,

A fresh chill brushing my face,

Carrying the invigorating scent of snowmelt and pine.

Ahead,

The path encircling the lake beckons,

A tranquil promise of nature's beauty unfolding around me.

This exquisite jewel,

Emerald Lake,

Sits nestled within Yoho National Park.

Its very name,

Yoho,

A Cree expression of awe and amazement.

As I take my first step,

This sense of profound wonder stirs awe within me,

And I find a smile playing on my lips.

The park itself is a UNESCO World Heritage Site,

With part of its significance in the nearby Burgess Shale,

An important fossil site.

In this area,

Remarkably well-preserved soft-bodied fossils from over 500 million years ago offer an extraordinary glimpse into the earliest forms of animal life on Earth.

The fossils are an ancient record,

Deepening the sense of wonder here.

As I walk along the trail,

Patches of snow still linger,

Some feels packed firmly beneath my boots,

Offering a satisfying crunch,

While in other spots it feels quite icy and I need to watch my step.

And in some places,

The snow is beginning to recede,

Revealing the vibrant green shoots of alpine plants beneath,

Patiently awaiting the sun's full warmth.

What a contrast the air up here feels,

Compared to the milder temperature I had enjoyed just a few hours earlier,

While enjoying coffee in the city of golden,

Down along the highway.

Up here,

At the lake's elevation,

The crisp mountain chill makes me deeply grateful for my hat and mitts.

The trail climbs gently in some places,

Always offering breathtaking views of the lake below,

And in other stretches,

The path winds close to the muted shade of the water.

Here on one of these rocky shores,

I find myself drawing near to the water's edge.

As I gaze out at the peaceful lake,

The surface like glass reflecting the mountain range,

I can't help but wonder,

Could I be standing in the very spot that first caught the eye of the lake's founder,

Tom Wilson,

All those years ago?

As the story goes,

In 1882,

Tom Wilson was working as a surveyor for the Canadian Pacific Railway.

His job involved meticulously mapping out the land,

Measuring distances and angles to charge pathways,

Searching for the best viable routes for the railway to pass through the challenging,

Rocky mountains.

I read that it was during this work that he came upon this stunning lake.

Of course,

His discovery of such a beautiful spot made it a natural centerpiece for Yoho National Park,

Which was established a few years later.

I wonder if he too felt this profound sense of awe looking out at the calm waters just as I am now.

The water,

A soft,

Hushed emerald,

Is still partially veiled by some remaining ice,

Drifting lazily across its surface.

In many places along the shore,

Especially on the shore shaded by the mountain,

The ice clings stubbornly,

Broken into jagged,

Crystalline pieces that refract the sunlight like shimmering shards of glass.

The lake's famous hue,

The deep,

Brilliant turquoise it's known for,

Is not hard to miss in the open water,

A promise of the vibrant beauty yet to fully awaken.

As I walk along,

I listen.

There are so many sounds to take in.

In the distance,

A deep,

Resonant roar echoes through the valley,

The majestic voice of a powerful waterfall,

Perhaps one of the grand cascades of Yoho National Park.

Like the towering Takaka Falls,

I would love to witness that waterfall firsthand one day,

Though my trip today doesn't include that detour,

So that will have to be a story for another day.

Nearer by to me,

I notice a steady rhythm accompanies my steps,

The distant tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker echoing through the trees,

A familiar heartbeat of the forest.

Lowering my gaze from the treetops to the path once more,

I catch a glimpse of a squirrel as it darts across the path ahead of me and disappears into the brush,

Then appears again racing up a tree,

Its movements so quick and graceful.

Its ascent pauses on a low branch,

Chirping and chattering with another squirrel.

Their chatter a playful counterpoint to the quiet reverence of the mountains.

Occasionally,

The echo of a crow's call bounces off the rugged cliffs high above us,

Adding to nature's surprisingly rhythmic symphony.

Although I find myself wondering,

Is that a crow?

Or could it be a raven?

Those intelligent,

Dark-feathered birds of the mountains.

I search my memory,

Trying to recall their differences.

The deeper croaks and solitary,

Soaring presence of ravens,

Distinct from the smaller,

More communal crows.

Though the precise call of each eludes me,

A smile touches my lips as memories of my own encounters with these clever birds surface.

Their calls hold a wisdom as deep as the canyons themselves.

With each breath in,

I draw in this crisp mountain air,

Feeling it gently expand in my lungs.

And with each exhale,

I feel my body relax,

Sinking ever deeper into the profound calm of this moment.

Across the lake,

The mountain range,

Called President Range,

Rises dramatically,

Its rugged peaks still heavy in places with snow,

Their sheer walls reflecting on the still lake waters in ghostly symmetry.

Wapta Mountain,

In particular,

Commands my attention with its bold,

Imposing shape,

A seemingly silent guardian of this peaceful realm.

Wisps of clouds gently brush the mountain tips,

Their edges glowing golden as the morning sun continues its patient climb.

As I wander along,

I marvel at the contrast the trail offers,

The satisfying crunch of snow underfoot.

Yet,

On the sunlit portions of the path,

The ground is soft with ancient needles and springy moss.

The sounds of the wilderness are beautifully muted,

As if the entire world is holding its breath in this in-between season.

As I near the back of the lake,

The terrain feels more secluded,

The forest thickening and the trail narrows slightly.

Spruce and fir trees tower overhead,

Their branches still heavy with clumps of snow,

Creating a hushed,

Sacred canopy high above me.

Here a trickling stream crosses the path,

Its icy water rushing eagerly toward the lake,

Swollen by the recent melt.

Its miniature cascades adding a delicate,

Soothing song to the forest's quaint melody.

And then,

Through the trees,

The lake's lodge comes into view.

It sits tucked into the shoreline like something out of an old postcard.

Its rustic log architecture blending seamlessly into the natural surroundings.

Its peak roof slightly dusted with snow.

Built in 1902 by the Canadian Pacific Railway,

This beautifully crafted lodge retains an old world charm,

A testament to enduring beauty.

Over the decades,

It has been thoughtfully cared for,

And I've read that it was updated with some significant restorations in 1986 and 2004,

Ensuring its timeless appeal.

It does feel timeless here,

A retreat that has quietly watched the seasons shift for over a century,

Offering solace to all who arrived by railway and sought the beauty and isolation of the Rockies.

As I continue my journey around the lake,

The air grows subtly warmer,

And I realize a transformation has occurred nearly before my eyes.

The last stubborn pockets of ice have fractured and floated away,

Revealing more and more of the lake's glassy,

Pristine water beneath.

The sun gleams off the awakened surface,

And I see fully now how the lake earned its name,

Glowing with the deep,

Vibrant green that seems almost otherworldly.

The reflection of the precedent range is sharper now on the water's surface,

Undisturbed by lingering ice or restless wind,

A perfectly mirrored world.

An irresistible urge to experience its beauty from a new perspective stirs within me.

As I near the end of the loop around the lake,

I find myself drawn to the canoe dock.

The gentle creak of wood greeting me as I walk along its weathered planks.

To my delight,

The little shop offering canoe rentals is open,

And with no one in line ahead of me,

I'm able to rent one.

I find it moored near the end of the dock,

Stepping in carefully,

Its wooden-hulled rocks side to side gently,

Then settles as I take my seat.

I dip the paddle into the water,

Right side,

Then left side,

Sending small ripples out in widening circles that nudge the canoe and lap outward further toward the shore.

The water is cold and impossibly clear.

I peek over the canoe edge and can see the rounded stones at the bottom of the shallows,

Tinted faintly green by the ancient minerals that give the lake its famous captivating color.

I glide smoothly along the water as I follow the shoreline,

Not too close.

Each stroke of the paddle effortless,

A silent ballet with the water.

Here and there,

Small pieces of ice remain in shaded coves,

Their edges melting into delicate lace-like formations.

They crackle softly as they break up,

Their quiet disintegration marking the passage of winter into spring.

Above me,

The mountains seem ever more immense from my watery viewpoint.

The President Range looms to the north,

Its snow-capped peaks contrasting majestically against the emerald waters.

And the jagged spires of Mount Burgess rise to the south,

Their craggy faces scarred by eons of weathering.

To the west,

Wapta Mountain stretches toward the sky,

Its cliffs painted with long streaks of snow that will likely remain well into summer.

It's hard to tear my gaze from these majestic mountains.

I feel perfectly suspended in this vast,

Tranquil landscape floating atop Emerald Lake's calm surface.

Eventually my gaze shifts to the shore,

Where I notice wildlife stirring.

A pair of loons drift serenely,

Their haunting calls echoing across the lake,

A melody of wild freedom.

Closer to me,

A family of ducks paddles peacefully through the reeds,

Their lulling quacks a soft accompaniment.

On the far shore,

I spot a yellow-bellied marmot sunning itself on a warm boulder,

A tiny sentinel of the mountain.

Paddling farther out,

I notice how the light shifts on the water.

In the shine of the morning sun,

The lake sparkles like a thousand tiny diamonds scattered across its surface.

The air is filled with a symphony of sound,

The melodic lap of water against the canoe,

The occasional rustle of wind in the towering trees,

The delicate musical chorus of unseen birds singing their mountain lullaby,

And the distant,

Constant murmur of the grand waterfall cascading from the mountains somewhere in the park.

High above me in the clear blue sky,

I catch a glimpse of a bald eagle circling lazily,

Scanning the water for fish,

No doubt,

Its powerful wings catching the currents of the wind with graceful ease.

I wonder what fish thrive in these cold,

Clear mountain waters.

Perhaps there's rainbow trout or bull trout darting through the depths beneath me.

The canoe moves lightly,

Almost weightless,

Carving through the calm emerald water.

I pause for a moment,

Simply floating,

Letting the paddle rest lightly across my lap.

The stillness is profound.

I am simply floating,

Held securely by the canoe on the water,

Enveloped by the quiet majesty of nature.

Allow this sensation of weightless drifting to carry you now,

Deeper and deeper into rest.

Feel your body becoming lighter,

More relaxed,

As if you are peacefully floating on the calm,

Clear surface of Emerald Lake itself.

Your breath flows in and out,

Slow and deep,

Mirroring the quiet rhythm of the water.

Each gentle ripple of the lake beneath you becomes your soft lullaby,

Inviting every muscle in your body to soften,

To release.

You are safe here,

Cradled by the mountains,

Soothed by the water.

The worries of the world are far,

Far away,

Like distant echoes that can no longer reach you.

This is your time to rest,

To rejuvenate,

To drift peacefully into the sweet embrace of sleep.

Stress no longer lives here.

Thank you for listening tonight.

May your dreams be as peaceful as the waters of Emerald Lake,

And as vast as the mountain sky.

Sweet dreams,

And goodnight friend.