We first heard about the Trans-Alta Trail while researching overlanding routes in Alberta. With zero experience and abundant excitement, we ventured there for the first time in March of this year. As the weather warmed into spring, we assumed the somewhat "vanilla" trail would be manageable in our Sprinter. At the edge of Highway 40, on Nakoda land, we entered Ghost Public Land and fell in line behind a procession of small but vigorous overlanding vehicles. They were all airing down their tires, prepping for what lay ahead.

I was intimidated. Never done this before. Never seen anything like it. My hands found the passenger grab handles and stayed there a little too tightly. I sensed the road wouldn't be what we expected. Spring weather brings unpredictability. Similar to hiking, this terrain isn't recommended in early spring. Mud, melting snow, lingering ice. It's tricky to plan for. So we drove, following the cute little Wranglers to the head of the trail. That's as far as we got. As far as most of us got. Despite the highway being dry and smooth, this undulating, forest-covered gravel road was coated in the last remnants of winter's ice.

It was as simple as that. So we turned around.

Now that we're back in Alberta for the second time this year, we're determined to tackle the Trans-Alta again. This time, we're going to cross it and camp along the way. Mid-July marks our departure. The sun is warm, the breeze refreshing, the wildflowers swaying, the mountains singing, and the horseflies pestering.

Day One. We discover, soon after starting the Trans-Alta, that the road isn't nearly as daunting as we'd feared. It's actually very accessible. I build an idea in my head that it would be this crazy, wavy, bone-rattling ride. But it's just a gravel road. A gravel road with stunning views of the Rockies and Ghost River. We camp that night overlooking one of those vistas, our Sprinter perched above the valley.

Day Two. You learn a lot about people on these trails by the vehicle they drive. Are you in an adventure van like ours? A Wrangler with crazy suspension? One of the many grey Tacomas we see scattered across the Canadian Rockies, or a red Buick? These are all vehicles we encounter on the Trans-Alta (not to mention the four-wheelers and dirt bikes). As we pass each other on the trail, we exchange a friendly wave that means I see you, and we enjoy the same small pleasures. Being outside. Freedom. Simple living. No matter what off-roading vehicle you choose, we all share that in common.

We hardly make it far on our drive yesterday (only a few kilometres in) so we pick it back up on Day Two after squeezing in some work hours. The road is still a gravel road: some scrambly parts, some flat, some bumpy. We get to explore a mountain range we've never seen before. We stop halfway through for more work and park beside someone's abandoned poop bucket. What a delight. We take one look, exchange a glance, and relocate the van a respectful distance down the road before opening our laptops.

We make it to the river bend, where there isn't actually much of a river at this time of year. It's closer to two little creeks winding through the stones. A friendly local dirt biker comes to introduce himself. He spends his whole summers here and his winters ice climbing on the mountain's rocky faces. He shares a few insights on how people live in the area, which helps put us at ease (this is, after all, our first time on this land). We spend the rest of the afternoon in the water while Soba, our dog, walks hesitantly around the shallows, getting braver with each step. He's still figuring out the whole wet-paws thing, but he's getting there. We go to bed that night scanning the river bend for bears from our back-door windows.

Day Three. We wake to the sound of the creek nudging its way over rocks. A low, constant murmur that feels like the mountain's version of white noise. We spend the morning working from the van, then walk along the river bend, soak our feet in the cool water, and play with Soba outside. We are in paradise.

The dirt biker invites us over for the evening, so we walk over to his site nestled in the trees. He's a guy named Chris. A corporate-not-so-corporate businessman from Cochrane who's been coming to this stretch of the river every summer for a while. He has one of those massive two-storey trailers with a built-in garage for his bike. I still don't know how he hauls it through that bumpy road, but it's clearly possible. We spend the evening around a campfire, cold beers in hand and perfectly grilled steaks on the grate, listening to Chris's stories about the valley. It's a perfect end to our stay here before heading back to civilization the next morning.

The Trans-Alta gave us two things we didn't expect. The first was obvious: in March, the ice turned us around; in July, the gravel welcomed us through. This time we came better prepared, in the right season, carrying the humility that a failed first attempt conveniently provides. But the second thing was less expected. We came to the middle of nowhere assuming we wouldn't cross paths with anyone. It was full of people—Chris, the dirt biker, the line of Wrangler drivers airing down their tires, every passing Tacoma offering a wave. Interesting, generous people with lives rooted in landscapes we'd only ever driven through. People we would simply never have met from behind a desk. The assumption that remoteness means isolation turned out to be the most inaccurate thing we carried into this trip. Connection was there all along.