The water in Peyto Lake was a strange color, like a bucket of blue-green paint had been poured in. The parking lot at the foot of the mountain was packed with buses, and tourists, cameras in hand, surged toward the viewing platform. Looking down from the top of the slope, the lake resembled a curved claw, the shallower areas a lighter shade. The wind was light, the surface of the water was perfectly still, and the reflections of the snow-capped mountains were clearly visible within it. A child nearby leaned on the railing and shouted, "Mommy, look!" There wasn't much to see, really, just a lake, lying there quietly. After standing there for ten minutes, the crowd dispersed, and my knees buckled on the way down.