Racing the Tide
On the West Coast Trail You Have to Beat the Sea...
August 29, 2005

Quartertide Rocks... Photo courtesy of Angela Reid

Day 2: Thrasher Cove to Cullite Creek. (KM 70 to KM 58.)

5:30 AM. It is dark but Carolyn and I get up so we can make it around Owen's Point before high tide. The beach route proves to be no cakewalk, however, with several kilometers of massive boulders, slippery sandstone and surge channels that can only be skirted by clinging to a loose, fraying rope.

KM 62. On the forest route, we encounter our first cable car at Camper Creek. Two of the Californians are in the car; the other two must already be across. We climb the ladder to the platform and pull the car toward us. Wide-eyed and stiff-grinned, Carolyn crawls into the shaky contraption and holds the car in place while I hand her our two monster packs, then crouch down in what space is leftover. We let go of the rope and gravity pulls the car halfway across the creek, at which point we must pull ourselves up the other side, hand over hand.

5:30 PM. KM 58. At Cullite Creek, we descend at least 200 ladder rungs into a sandstone canyon to the campsite. Carolyn and I settle in and silently eat whatever we can find in our packs that doesn't require a stove (we are too tired tonight for even a simple add-water meal), then hold our breath and dunk in the cold, brackish creek with our clothes on—this way, we can bathe and do laundry all in one step.

6:30 PM. I try to build a fire. About fourteen times. There is little wood and what we do have is wet. I consider burning the paperback I brought with me; I am not getting much reading done.

6:45 PM. I rearrange my wet clothes on a log, and notice that they are still soaking wet. I wish I'd brought a clothesline.

7:10 PM. I am trying to find things to do—what I really want to do is sleep, but it is still light. So I turn my clothes over again. Still wet.

7:20 PM. Still wet.

7:25 PM. Still wet.

7:30 PM. I remember that I have a clothesline (it's called rope), but I am too tired to find it. So I get in my sleeping bag to read and fall asleep after only a few pages. I wake up later to find Carolyn asleep on her back, arms folded neatly as if for her funereal viewing. Her book sits on her chest, her headlamp shining. I reach over to turn off her light and she barely stirs.

We are exhausted from a 10-hour day on the trail. I have no fear of bear or cougar tonight. They can eat my food—hell, they can eat my right arm for all I care—just so long as they don't wake me up.

Day 3: Cullite Creek to Carmanah Creek. (KM 58 to KM 45.)

10:30 AM. Knowing we have to climb back up another 200 ladder rungs to regain the trail, we take our time decamping. Meanwhile, we notice two new tents have arrived since we went to bed. "They were loud," complain the Aussie foursome next to us. Carolyn and I didn't hear a thing, but we exchange knowing glances and laugh: "The Californians!"

True enough, the tents eventually give birth to Turbo Boy and his friends. After making too much coffee, I carry the jumbo pot over to their campsite and offer to fill their cups. In doing so I seal a friendship with Deek (a.k.a. Turbo Boy), Karen, Robin and Jordan. The morning's hike consists of long sections of boardwalk; the old soft wood planks feel like wet Wonder Bread in some areas, and are missing entirely in others. Nevertheless, we feel we are making good time in comparison to the two previous days.

KM 53. After the high tide begins to recede, we drop down from the forest route to the beach. We frantically pull our wet clothes out of our packs and lay them on logs to dry in the afternoon sun while we eat lunch. After lunch, we walk quietly and contentedly. This is the kind of beach we've imagined: golden sand, firm and damp.

KM 48. Bonilla Point: "Isn't this the campground that's closed due to cougar activity?" I mention casually as we stroll by. "Here kitty, kitty," I call sweetly, feeling fit and invulnerable.

It's late afternoon and we're enjoying the best conditions of the trek so far: easy walking, sunny weather. Our spirits are high and we're chatty again—counting our blessings, enjoying the moment, pitying all our friends who at that moment are at work. We are approaching the point, where the sandy beach begins to narrow as it passes between a high seastack and the grassy shoreline. "What was that?" Carolyn has stopped. I stop and hear it myself. From somewhere in the tall grass about ten feet away comes a low rumble. I want to think it is just a wave echoing, but as I replay the sound in my head, I know I've heard it before. In zoos. In "The Lion King."

"Is that a cougar?" Carolyn asks quietly.

In two seconds we have drawn our mace, pocketknives and trekking poles. We are waving them in all directions like Charlie's Angels, instinctively taking steps backwards, stumbling over rocks. We try to remember what we were told in orientation.

"Aren't we supposed to talk confidently?" Carolyn whispers.

So we loudly tell the cougar to f*** off and that we aren't scared of him. We hope the cougar speaks English.

We also remember to never turn your back on a cougar, illustrated by the legend that says the natives here walk with eyes painted on the backs of their hats. So Carolyn and I take turns backing away—one of us keeps our eyes on the grass where the cougar is, while the other takes careful steps backward over the rocks, looking for an alternate route. I quickly start to panic, because there is no alternate route. To the left of our intended route is the rocky outcropping, on the other side of which is the broiling, smashing surf. To the right of our intended route is, well, the cougar.

We eventually realize that two curious hikers are watching us from the other side of the point. "Be careful, you guys!" we call to them. "There's a cougar in there!"

Feeling more confident now that it is four against one, Carolyn and I navigate the narrow spit quickly-quickly, and breathlessly we warn the hikers again. They are standing up, eating sandwiches and looking at us quizzically. "Cougar," we say. No response. "Grrr."

"Ahh, puma," says the man calmly, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Ahh, puma," says the woman, nodding slowly.

KM 46. We ford the shallow trickle at the mouth of Carmanah Creek in our boots and pick up the pace, like horses for the stable. For in the distance is our destination for the night: Chez Monique's, an oasis of burgers and beers. Built on a piece of reservation land by a native named Peter and his wife Monique, with floors of damp, sloping sand and walls of tarp and lumber. We are greeted by a collie-sheepdog-mutt named Sioux and his temporary guardian, Jeremy, a 29-year-old venture capitalist from Calgary filling in for Monique.

We order two burgers, which we savor as if they were filet mignon.

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