wct04 - day two

August 12, 2004

Another long hump of a day is over, although not as much trail was covered as yesterday. Tomorrow could prove to be a long day of walking, but for the first time since we hit the trail we’ll be able to actually just walk for while.

The ladders have been numerous and, at times, nerve-wracking. At Cullite Creek we climbed down a deep gorge on a set of six or seven ladders. Each set was 25 to 30 rungs tall and they were each set at varied angles. At the bottom we had to take a cable car to the other side of the creek and then climb back up a similar set of ladders to the one we had just descended. I didn't like it.

We spent time today in silence and in conversation. Derek and I walked and talked for a while this morning. This afternoon I walked for a while with Greg.

Tonight we are staying on the beach at Walbran Creek. Our tents are pitched on tiny plots of sand, protected from the wind by giant logs washed up on the beach. A dozen other camps set up along the beach as well. Some we recognize from the trail or Camper Cove, others are unfamiliar. All the little fires; and poles stuck end up in the sand like totems. My hat sat for awhile on the handle of my walking pole, stuck like a flag-post near the entrance to my tent. Tribal nomads, we all stake a claim in a communal zone. Camping allows us to express the urges of our ancestors.

I miss Meaghan a lot. As I write this she is probably approaching YVR. Soon she will be home. I hope she is happy when she gets there and I hope she has an okay day at work in the morning.

I miss you babe.

I am having a hard time sleeping. I am excited about the prospects for tomorrow’s hike, and two tiny blisters have formed on two of my tiny toes. Both things sort of niggle at me.

Also keeping me awake is the relentless pounding of the surf. When we first arrived here I stopped and leaned against a log. I stood there, arms across my chest, and stared at the ocean doing its thing. Lying in the tent tonight I can hear the sound of the rocks being pulled down the beach by waves retreating into the ocean. It's no wonder all the stones are smooth. Sometimes the waves sound like a fall wind rustling dry leaves on branches. Or rain. Marvelous.


At Walbran Creek. Derek and Greg have the tent with the grey fly. My fly is yellow. Living quite happily among all the logs were garter snakes. Lots of them. This was rather unnerving to some of the campers.

I was just perusing some West Coast Trail info on the Parks Canada website. The site advises against first time back country hikers hitting the trail. Understandable. This was my first back country camping trip. To prove a point, on the morning of our second day I boiled something starchy, like oats or cream of wheat, for breakfast. That is the only time ever, while camping in the back country, that I have cooked a breakfast. It was too much hassle to clean up after. Clearly I had made a novice mistake. There are no sinks in the woods. Now sewers either. What else was left to learn?


Derek at a log-bridge crossing. The morning sun eased all our pain.

We packed and left Camper Bay. Starting at the base of a hill, the trail wove its way upward through switchbacks and along ridges. At twenty metres elevation, looking down through a gap in the trees at the beach we had just camped on, I worried about the trail ahead. My legs ached. My whole body ached. I took some calcium pills that would choke a grizzly, or two, and a couple ibuprofen tablets - I suppose they could choke a squirrel.

Thirty minutes later, and for the rest of the day, I felt fine. Apparently I was not going to die.


The first bit of walking was deceptive in its ease. This board walk, though a little crusty looking, was a nice break from dancing along a path warn down to roots and rocks.

I may be exaggerating here on the number of ladders climbed at Cullite Creek, or how many rungs each ladder had, but the total number of rungs climbed was certainly into three figures. On each side of the creek. Climbing ladders was often an unnerving experience. Some were solid, sturdy and well anchored, obviously recently built. Others, not so sturdy or solid; some may only have been anchored to moss.

I remember flinging myself, relieved, over the last rung at the top of Cullite Creek. Derek and Greg were already at the top, I think, and the three of us rested wearily at the side of the trail. It was a humbling moment. From around the bend up the trail a woman and man in their twenties ran toward us. In their sneakers, lycra pants and hoodies they weren't what you expect to see on the trail. These two were definitely travelling light. Each wore small a hydration pack just large enough for food and a few necessities. They stopped briefly at the top of the ladders.

"Are you running the trail," one of us asked.
"yes," came the reply from between breaths.
"How long are you taking?" This question is usually squeezed into the first few minutes of conversation following an inter-tribal encounter.
"Two days. We started yesterday morning."

We sat in silence for a minute while the two runners discussed what lay ahead. There were more ladders, log bridges, bridges and boardwalks, as well as a bog or two to come. The man looked at his watch and as they started down the ladder we wished them good luck. A fleeting encounter with a couple whose entire encounter with the park has been fleeting. That's intense.

Despite any discomfort I may have felt in the morning, and how tired I was arriving at Walbran Creek, I think by the second night I had resigned myself to finishing the trail in one piece. Aches and the groans that went with them faded into the background, leaving an unimpeded view of the world I was walking through.