Banff: Home

By Karen Sorensen

When I saw the Canadian Rockies for the first time, I was awestruck. Amazed. Agog. I was fourteen. My father had a conference in Jasper, and after it concluded, we rented a car and drove down the Icefields Parkway, taking in all the sights. We stood atop Sulphur Mountain and as I gazed down at the small town of Banff, nestled in the arms of Cascade, Rundle, and Norquay mountains, I turned to my mom and said, in a very matter-of-fact voice, “I’m going to live here one day.” 

I just knew. 

I felt that connection again when I returned five years later, now a university student working the summer holidays at the Columbia Icefields. Though I went back and forth a few times between semesters and graduation and boyfriends, I eventually married a local Banff boy, and we settled in Banff for good. I was where I belonged, nestled in the arms of Cascade, Rundle and Norquay, and I knew our children would grow up in the most beautiful place on Earth. 

It wasn’t the magnificence of the mountains that kept me rooted and made me feel secure. It was, and still is, the strong, kind, welcoming community of people who choose to live here (and meet the need-to-reside regulations). We may be a national park community that welcomes four million visitors a year, but Banff is like other small mountain towns in Canada, with a deep love for our environment and quiet gratitude for all it offers us. Our children graduate from grade 12 with the same childhood friends they potty-trained with in daycare. Our bikes and backpacks and hockey gear jostle for room in the garage. We pray for snow to cover the ski slopes and Nordic trails, then curse it when we’re shovelling our walkways. We learn early on about the potential dangers of mama elk and how to identify fresh bear scat. We celebrate our successes together and we mourn together when we lose a community elder, along with their history of a Banff gone by. 

As Banff’s Mayor (2010–2021) I had a front row seat, watching our community pull together in crisis, step up and get us through—and not just us, but our neighbours and others around the world. I’ve seen heads bent over maps in the wee hours of the morning, confronting the threat of flood or wildfire; fundraisers for the family who just lost a dad, and for families back home in the Philippines after an earthquake; local businesses providing for their staff during the pandemic; responders heading to Fort McMurray and more recently, Jasper, to help after their devastating fires; staff, resources and whatever help we could give sent to Canmore during and after the 2013 flood—a slide show in my mind of memories that always bring me to tears. 

I wish visitors could see the Banff behind the Instagram shot. They would get a sense of our values of protecting the park, accepting and respecting others, and welcoming visitors. They would see us on our important journey to reconciliation with Indigenous Peoples. They would discover our growing cultural diversity. And they would learn about how we are responding to the challenges of affordability, climate change and congestion, because, yes, we too have challenges. If they venture beyond Banff Avenue, our visitors will find a hometown. Friendship. A community of wonderful people living full lives, connected to and caring about each other. I think the visitor experience would be richer for it. 

Because this community is part of Banff’s majesty, too. This is home. 

On the end of Sulphur Mountain ridge looking northeast over Banff, Alberta, 1888 (top) and 2008 (bottom).  

[Top: J. J. McArthur, 1888, Library & Archives Canada / Bibliothèque et Archives Canada ecopy number e002506934; Bottom: MLP, 2008]