I reached the trailhead at Joffre Lakes around 6:30 in the evening, when the light was already softening and most people were on their way back down. By 6:45 I set out on the trail, conscious of the late hour but eager to experience the beauty of all three lakes rather than stopping at the famous bridge view at Middle Joffre Lake. The first stretch led me through tall trees, with the late sun filtering through the branches. Every so often I passed groups of hikers descending, tired but smiling, their eyes still carrying the reflection of turquoise water and snowcapped peaks.
Lower Joffre Lake came into view quickly, its calm surface catching the last warm glow of the evening. It was quieter now, almost deserted compared to the crowds that usually gather earlier in the day. The turquoise water looked even more mysterious in the fading light, framed by darkening forest. I continued along the trail, knowing that the second lake was where the true drama of the landscape would unfold.
The climb grew steeper, roots and rocks underfoot demanding attention. I could hear the sound of rushing water nearby, the melt from the glaciers above making its way down the valley.
When I reached Middle Joffre Lake, I paused at the bridge, which so many visitors consider the highlight of the hike. The view was indeed spectacular: the glacier looming high above, the turquoise lake stretched out beneath it, and the last hikers lingering for photographs. But for me, this was not the end. I wanted to see the upper lake, the most secluded of the three, before night would fall completely.
The trail from the middle to the upper lake rose steadily, winding through alpine terrain where the trees grew sparser and the air cooler. The sound of voices reached me now and then, but mostly it was quiet, the kind of silence that makes you aware of every step and every breath. In the middle of Second Lake and Upper Lake, a fall brake down with immense power, and the canyon seemed to vibrate with the roar of the current.
By the time I reached the Upper Joffre Lake, the evening was deepening. The glacier was right there, spilling down into the turquoise waters that looked almost unreal in their color, even under dimming light. There I met a group of five hikers—three from Barcelona and two Brazilians who had made their home in the same city. They were resting at the shore, enjoying the high mountain scenery. We spoke for a while, and since darkness was approaching quickly, I was glad when they suggested walking down together.
The descent took us one hour and twelve minutes, a steady pace as shadows closed in around us. The forest, lively with golden light when I first started, had turned into a dim corridor where every step required attention. Our group of six kept close, the sound of conversation and footsteps breaking the silence of the approaching night. By the time we reached the parking lot, it was fully dark. Headlights from cars and the faint glow of the trailhead sign welcomed us back from the mountain.
The hike felt like a journey compressed into just a few hours—a beginning in daylight, a climax at the glacier-fed lake, and a return under nightfall. It reminded me that timing changes the experience of a trail entirely, and that sometimes, arriving later allows you to feel the landscape in a quieter, more intimate way.